Delusional
by Raven'd Fleet
Summary: [HPXLotR] He battled the Basilisk, killed it even, but laid wounded beyond reach, dying. The poison would end him, and with him Ginny. But it didn't kill him. It changed him, moved him to a world he hadn't known existed. It gave him hope. And despair.
1. Chapter 1

Delusional

Raven'd Fleet

_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings. Both belong to J. K. Rowling and J. R. R. Tolkein respectively. No profit is made from this story_.

Chapter One:

Harry Potter watched on with a muted sort of disinterest at the scene before him: Tom Riddle, a handsome man with a rigid face, seemed to sway and distort in the dim light, frosty brown eyes glinting despite the darkness. They almost seemed to bleed crimson, like the girl. The girl below him... She laid sprawled, a burning halo contrasted like good and evil. Like dying embers... with pale skin so deathly wan that her chocolate freckles appeared like great spots of sickness.

_Breathe... _whispered what was left of his conscious.

He tried, but his lungs burned, his body felt like led, and everything seemed to be spinning and swaying... like one of those circus mirrors, around and around and around again. Faster and Faster... shorter and shorter...

_Breathe..._

But he couldn't.

Overhead, he felt the air currents waver. A bird with the most beautiful red and gold plumage fluttered near. Fawkes, he thought slowly, headmaster Dumbledore's phoenix. He tried to smile at it, but the muscles just wouldn't move. He couldn't move. He needed to move, to get up, to stand, to fight!

_You need to breathe, never forget to breathe..._

"And look now, Harry Potter, how far you've fallen. Truly, it is miraculous that a child such as yourself ever had a hope to defeat such a powerful wizard as I. Ha! What miserable and wretched existence to have led. What? Why look now Dumbledore's pet cries for you. Don't you see? Even this beast know you're going to die!" laughed the well-to-do image of Tom Riddle. The sound echoed hollowly.

Harry clenched the bloodied sword in his hand numbly, just barely feeling the warm metal still hot with blood. He managed to glimpse the bulking corpse of a giant snake as his vision blurred, probably for the last time. Was this the end?

_Breathe..._

Was this how everything would end? His body left to decompose at the bottom of the Chamber of Secrets, while his friends were all picked off one by one? Would Ginny survive? Would Hermione? Ron?

_"Every year she makes us a sweater" said Ron unwrapping his own parcels, "and mine's **always** Maroon."_

_"You know what this means?" he finished breathlessly. "He tried to get past that three-headed dog at Halloween! That's where he was going when we saw him--he's after whatever it's guarding! And I bet my broomstick he let that troll in, to make a diversion!"_

_"**Nearly** Headless? How can you be **nearly** headless?"_

Was this what it was to die?

To disappear and leave all of his friends behind?

If he could, he might have frowned or maybe glared at the almost substantial image that stared back, but as it was, he had no strength left to do anything more than stare. Finally he let go to the inevitable, the blur of colors colliding together as the tides of blackness washed over him.

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He awoke slowly.

Pain, unbearable shifting pain stormed through his chest and arms, dancing on the bones and burning his head. Harry Potter doubted there was any part of him that didn't hurt. Flickering the emerald eyes slowly open, he stared at the white ceiling blurry and undetailed, a splash of grays against a simple white.

"Best not to move, young sir," came a simple voice through the haze of white. Harry, spiked with sudden fear and fury, tried to turn in effort to see the voice, only to find the pain in his neck so terrible he whimpered pitifully. A soft chuckle carried through the silence and he heard a distinct smirk in the voice. "Tried to warn you, I did..."

The man's deep chuckle died out and the tone became serious and sharp once more. "You've cause quite an uproar, young sir. Queer folk be coming round Bree lately, lucky old Bob found you near the stables, else you'd 'ave died by morn."

Uncertainty swept over Harry like drenching rain as flashes of memories came to him. Ginny. Ron. Hermione. Were they okay? What had become of Tom Riddle? A sharp pain hammered against his head before Harry got to question how he was alive.

"Rest now, young sir," spoke a voice calmly. "Old Butterbur'll answer questions later."

With leaded eyes, he returned quickly to a dreamless slumber.

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"You're certain?" asked a gruff voice through the haze and fog of Harry Potter's dreary mind. A pause and scowling scurry of curses flittered through the background of subtly shifting clothes. They sounded heavy and woolen, and distinctly warm. "Very well. Barley, I'm off in the morning. Will you do something for me?"

"You've only to name it."

"I'm in a hurry," said the first voice, "and I've no time myself, but I want a message took to the Shire. Have you anyone you can send, and trust to go?"

"Tomorrow, maybe or the day after."

"Make it the day after," decided the gruff voice before there was a whisper of fabric once more.

Harry managed to twist his neck somewhat, but only caught a glimpse of gray in the corner of his eye. The movement caught someone else's eye, though, and a small flask pressed against his lips. Without meaning to, he swallowed the foreign liquid, tasting the bitter concoction as it slipped beyond his tongue. Beyond his control, the world disappeared and, numbly, he returned to nothing.

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"Are you awake, young master?"

Opening his eyes, Harry searched for his crooked black glasses placing them on the tip of his nose despite their slightly broken and especially dirty state.

"Who are you? What's going on? Where am I?" he asked quietly, looking around the modest room he occupied. Humble and homey, he noted at once, and deceptively small. Everything looked child-sized, from the fluttery pale curtains and round-centered windows to the tall, ornamental mirror and short, spindly stools with their simple green velvet-like cloth.

"Not so many questions! No, you're at The Prancing Pony of Bree," answered the voice, and Harry turned to find himself staring at a tiny little man, about the size of his Charms professor Flitwick, with curling brown hair and kind brown eyes. For a moment, he stared at the strange person. "My name's Hob, Hob the Hobbit."

"Prancing... Bree? Hobbits?" Harry asked, his confused evident. How did he get here when last he remembered... Ginny! He shot up, sitting straight, only to feel his arm constrict painfully. Looking down, he saw a simple brown scab, the only remains of the poisoned wound. "How- How am I alive?"

If the little man thought this a strange question, he did not show it.

"Why, Mr. Butterbur nursed you to health. Quite lucky too, if you ask me, what with those strange riders coming and going. Queer folk be abroad and you is lucky that Bob found you and not one of them Rangers or worse."

Harry nodded without understanding, his mind a whirl of confusion, but the small man continued, talking in a rather easy voice with an accent unlike any he'd heard before.

"But as to you being alive, if you'll pardon my saying so, well I'd say it be a miracle, alright. Why if Gandalf hadn't happened by and saw to your wounds... Well, he fixed them up mighty well, if you'd ask me. Though he'd been muttering about you afterward all strange-like..."

"Gandalf?"

"Aye," agreed the little man as he began dusting the room. "A mighty fine wizard, that man, but a terribly strange one."

"Wizard!" Harry shouted, only to blush at the startled stare of the other man. "I mean, he's a wizard?"

"Isn't that what I said?" Harry felt his face burn redder. "Ah, there we are. Now, young sir, yah need some more rest before Old Butterbur'll let yah rise. Can't have yah wastin' his kindness, aye? He'll probably come visit in a day or so, best to go back to bed while yah can." And with that, the little man quickly scurried from the room, leaving Harry no choice but to ponder the words as he fell back to sleep.

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"Bring us three pints, would yah laddie?" called an obviously drunk dwarf over the roar of the crowded inn. Around him, two others heartily agreed, beating the now wet wooden tables and spraying spittle everywhere.

"You got the money for it?" Harry shouted over the bulking noise well aware the dwarf did not have it. The squat fellow had spent his last coin on a mug of ale last week, when Harry first begun working in the Prancing Pony.

He'd taken the job in hopes of not only paying back the owner for his help, but also to find this Gandalf man again. If he could only find this wizard, then perhaps the man would help him get home. That is, if there were even a home to go back to...

"Put it on me tab, boy."

Nodding in agreement, because really it wasn't his place to argue, he scurried away; mindful of the stray boots and stray wenches in his path. Glancing in a corner, he noticed the hooded figure once more smoking his pipe.

"Mr. Butterbur," Harry said as he awaited the drunk dwarf's order. "Whose that man there in the corner?"

"Him?" the fat man asked, his cheeks pink and eyes curious. "I don't rightly know, one of them wandering folk—Rangers, we call them. He seldom talks, save for a rare tale when he has the mind. He disappears for a month, or a year on end, and then pops up as though he'd never left. What his right name is, I don't rightly know, never heard. Around Bree we call him Strider; going about at a great pace on his long shanks. He don't tell nobody, mind you, where or what his hurry cause for. But there's no accounting for East and West here in Bree, meaning Rangers and Shire-folk."

But at that moment, the dwarves shouted for more ale, and Harry quickly nodded, though understanding not the words. He glanced once more at the quiet stranger before taking the dwarves their ale.

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Harry Potter wheezed slightly as he dropped the heavy saddle at the base of the large stable and leaned against the wooden door beside it. Who would have thought leather could be so heavy? He turned slightly towards Bob, a hobbit of the stables.

"Your sword, ya say?" asked the three foot tall hobbit with a grin that resembled squash. "Ho! Thought you'd never be coming for it, the bulky thing."

Harry chuckled awkwardly, unsure as the little man bustled about. What would he do with the massive blade now that he'd found it? Was it possible his wand fallen with him, despite the fact Riddle was holding it when he left? Could it somehow help him find a way back home?

"Ah!" sighed the little man with pleasure as Harry struggled with his unanswered questions. "'Ere it tis, back 'hind the rakes and spades. 'Fraid it's still dirty, tho'. You'd best be takin proper care of it, young sir, lest it fall apart like an ole mule!"

Harry nodded in acceptance and took the massive blade from the tiny man. Even as he did so, he felt the cold, heavy metal biting beneath the mud under his fingers.

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Harry easily completed his long list of chores before noon. Butterbur refused to give him to many, stating he had only just recovered, but Harry saw the pity in the man's eyes. Everyone always pitied the poor orphan boy.

Everyone but Strider, that is.

Perhaps that was why he liked the strange man so much. He never looked at anyone with anything other than contempt or a neutral expression that denied the observer his opinion.

Still, without much else to do, the green eyed youth journeyed into the woods behind the Inn, taking up the sword much as he had from the sorting hat weeks earlier, and attempted to slay some mighty invisible beast.

As he did so, he wondered once more, like he had since he'd awoken in the strange land, if Ginny was alive. Did Ron make it past the cave in to rescue his sister? Did Lockhart get sacked? Did Hermione get better? Was Riddle destroyed?

Using the blood-stained sword with it's mud-crusted hilt, Harry pushed forward and back, blocking and parrying and attacking his invisible foe. With stiff and heavy movements, he tried to destroy the imaginary monster, pushing the sword up in a high arch.

However, he misjudged his strength and the hilt came crashing down, falling onto his chest as his right arm burned with pain. The dull edge of the blade knocked upon the side of his head, blurring his vision. Hissing, Harry collapsed on the ground with a heavy grunt.

He laid there for a good while until he found the strength to pick himself up.

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Strider sat in the corner again, when Harry returned to wipe down tables and scrub tankards at the inn.

"Harry, you have come at last." stated Butterbur as he poured himself a large drink of ale to moisten his lips.

"Er- Sorry," he replied sheepishly, well aware he was late.

"'Tis well enough, young Harry," replied the man with a wide grin. "But best don't repeat it, Harry. Now, what was I doing? Oh yes! Lock up the inn, will you boy? I'll just have me self another drink and then head up!"

Harry nodded slightly despite the ringing in his head and helped the forgetful man to Nob, who would show him to bed. Turning back, Harry began cleaning the glasses as a man rolled lazily on the floor, to drunk to stand.

"Have you got a room here sir?" Harry asked politely, not wanting to cause a fight. He looked towards a group of three nearby. "Sirs?"

The red headed one closest just grunted in response. Harry sighed and went around the counter.

"Sir, it's time for bed. Do you have a room?" The head lolled and Harry rolled his eyes in disgust as droll begun to trail down the man's face. Without much other choice, Harry pulled up the man and half-carried, half dragged the man to the spare room.

When he returned, he noticed Strider was gone. Just as well, Harry thought despite the odd feeling in his stomach, he named unsatisfied curiosity. He quickly shooed away the other visitors and locked the doors. With that, he gratefully went to bed.

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For the next week Harry snuck out at noon every day and practiced his swordsmanship. Wielding the large blade as best he could with his lack of muscles and sore body, he managed to accidentally stab himself twice, wounded a few trees, and somehow knocked a few feathers off a stray bird.

Needless to say the animals all took to avoiding him frequently.

And yet, even as the time passed, Harry found his hope for ever leaving the strange land of hobbits and dwarves and men diminishing. He had yet to see or hear even a glimpse of this Gandalf fellow that nobody seemed able to describe, besides queer or strange.

Then there was Strider.

The ranger hadn't been seen for days by any of the people of Bree. He'd all but vanished without a trace one evening and not come back since. Somehow, the absents of the stranger left Harry hollow, but the young man brushed it off,

Swallowing a sigh, Harry pressed his arms upwards, dragging the sword's blade high and angling it slightly to the left, blocking a swift downwards blow from his imaginary opponent. Pushing back, Harry forced his invisible foe's blade back and swept wide, cutting open the man's gut and spilling his innards.

A leaf crunched behind him, and Harry turned at once, the blood-coated metal whistling forward to barely miss the top of the stable-hobbit, Bob's head.

"If ya didn't want any company, Mr. 'arry, you'd only 'ad to say so!" complained the Hobbit as he fell upon his bum with wide eyes. "We 'obbits aren't so nosy as all that!"

Laughing despite the occasion, Harry helped his little friend up.

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Harry cleaned the mugs once more with a yellowing rag, listening silently to the great cheer amongst the hobbits, dwarves, and men. The entire inn seemed in an uproar as they danced about and sung loudly, drinking far to much than necessary. That is, all but Strider, silent as ever, smoking his pipe without expression.

The man had appeared suddenly again exactly ten days after his departure, though no one seemed to mind this strange occurrence. When asked, Mr. Butterbur explained it away as the queerness of Rangers. _They come and go as they please, no one in their right mind would try to stop 'em._

Rolling his eyes at the hobbits antics, Harry scrubbed a particularly nasty spot and watched Mr. Underhill walk near Strider, sitting down next to the cloaked man. The boy wondered silently if they knew each other, but decided not at the expression of distrust on the hobbit's features.

Something about the round little hobbit with the kind blue eyes bothered Harry. He wasn't sure why, but he felt oddly possessed to get closer and all the while repulsed to stay far, far away. In the end, he settled for studying the strange little man's friends: a blithering tween, as he'd been told by a snorting Nob, going on about a birthday party and another, a gardener, as he quickly heard, who liked to tell stories of his old gaffer and sit in comfortable silence.

As the merry little hobbit, Mr. Took, just began to close the entertaining tale, Mr. Underhill stole the attention, suddenly pulling himself atop the table next to Strider to join the festivities. Drawing attention away from the surprised looking Took.

After yells for a song from half the inn, Mr. Underhill finally agreed to sing after a somewhat awkwardly short speech. Harry got the impression the hobbit had jumped before thinking.

"_There is an inn, a merry old inn  
beneath an old grey hill,  
And there they brew a beer so brown  
That the Man in the Moon himself came down  
one night to drink his fill..._"

_The ostler has a tipsy cat  
that plays a five-stringed fiddle;  
And up and down he runs his bow,  
Now squeaking high, now purring low,  
now sawing in the middle._

_The landlord keeps a little dog  
that is mighty fond of jokes;  
When there's good cheer among the guests,  
He cocks an ear at all the jests  
and laughs until he chokes..."  
_

Listening to the jolly tune, the green eyed wizard glanced surreptitiously around the pub, watching men clap their hands and dwarves toasting ale. He frowned at Strider's concentrated glaze unwavering and dark.

Swallowing, he pushed down a wave of irritation. What did he care if Strider seemed oddly concerned with the hobbit and yet had refused to look at him even once?Why should he feel anything for a complete stranger?

Gripping the glass a little more forceful than necessary, Harry moved it away and began on the next one._  
_

"_The Man in the Moon took another mug,  
and rolled beneath his chair;  
And there he dozed and dreamed of ale,  
Till in the sky the stars were pale,  
and dawn was in the air._

_Then the ostler said to his tipsy cat:  
"The white horses of the Moon,  
They neigh and champ their silver bits;  
But their master's been and drowned his wits,  
and the Sun'll be rising soon!"_

_So the cat on his fiddle played hey-diddle-diddle,  
a jig that would wake the dead:  
He squeaked and sawed and quickened the tune,  
While the landlord shook the Man in the Moon:  
"It's after three!" he said._

_They rolled the Man slowly up the hill  
and bundled him into the Moon,  
While his horses galloped up in rear,  
And the cow came capering like a deer,  
and a dish ran up with the spoon._

_Now quicker the fiddle went deedle-dum-diddle;  
the dog began to roar,  
The cow and the horses stood on their heads;  
The guests all bounded from their beds  
and danced upon the floor._

_With a ping and a pang the fiddle-strings broke!  
the cow jumped over the Moon,  
And the little dog laughed to see such fun,  
And the Saturday dish went off at a run  
with the silver Sunday spoon. _

_The round Moon rolled behind the hill,  
as the Sun raised up her head.  
She hardly believed her fiery eyes;  
For though it was day, to her surprise  
they all went back to bed._ _"_

There was a loud round of applause which Harry refused to join, for despite it all, Frodo did have a good voice and seemed to tickle the crowd's fickle opinion."Where's old Barley?" they cried. "He ought to hear this. Bob ought to learn his cat the fiddle, and we'd have ourselves a dance." They called for more ale and Harry rushed behind the bar, missing their next words, but guessing them all the same.

The song came again, only this time the crowd joined in, some humming and other singing with the tune, for it was well liked and Harry had heard the children singing it sometimes as they danced in the streets while he passed.

And then, as the song came to the notion of the horned cow jumping over the moon, a rhyme Harry distantly remembered his Aunt Petunia telling to his cousin Dudley, he heard a distinct clatter. Looking up, the young wizard had only a moment to comprehend the vanishing, singing hobbit when a sharp pain took his forehead. Falling to the floor, unnoticed by any, Harry managed, through the pain, to see something strange.

A hobbit appearing suddenly, sitting next to Strider's muddy black boots which remained unmoved.

"There's some mistake somewhere," said Butterbur, and Harry noticed at once he'd come from around the fireplace. "There was to much of that Mr. Underhill to go vanishing into thin air; or into thick air, as is more likely in this room."

"Well where is he now?" cried several voices.

"How should I know? He's welcome to go where he will, so long as he pays in the morning. There's Mr. Took now; he's not vanished."

"Well I saw what I saw," stated Mugwort obstinately, an elderly man with a rough face and stubborn demeanor. "And I saw what I didn't!"

"And I say there's been some mistake," repeated Butterbur, picking up the tray and gathering up the broken crockery.

"As do I," replied Harry from behind the bar. He didn't like angry and confused looks about the small tavern, nor Mugwort's disrespect towards Butterbur. "Mr. Underhill can hardly just disappear into thin air, as Mr. Butterbur has said. And if he did not vanish, than obviously he crawled."

The crowd did not seem to believe his words, as they frowned and grumbled, but they also didn't press Mr. Underhill for questions, which Harry could easily tell, the hobbit was avoiding. The guests quickly fled the inn, all but few casting angry glances of distrust.

Harry took their empty pints at once, giving each person a strained smile as they left. No one bothered to return it.

Looking towards the corner Strider had sat in, the dark haired youth frowned deeply.

"Their's trouble brewing, young Harry. Be sure of it," confided the old Inn Keeper, his dark eyes fearful and glossy as he laid a comforting hand on Harry's shoulder. "Best not stay up late, lad. Now go find old Bob and tell him to come in."

Harry nodded agreeably, though highly reluctant to leave the warmth inside.

Wiping his hands, Harry moved into the night.

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It was dark, incredibly so, despite the kind flickers of the lamp. It made him miss his wand all the more. A simple Lumos spell would have not gone unwanted on the moonless night.

He walked slowly when a slight whimper broke against his ears. Harry turned towards it slightly, his green eyes searching the darkness from behind the broken frames, trying to judge the source.

"Bob?" He called slightly, his voice as strong as he could muster despite the cold chill that permeated around him. "Bob is that-"

He broke off at the loud neigh in the distance and an inhumane shriek. Hooves clattered like crushed echoes of thunder swept about by the chilling autumn wind. He couldn't leave Bob out there! He had to save the little hobbit... He couldn't loose him like he had his other friends...

Hermione. Ginny...

The name brought the image instantly to his eyes. Crimson hair tossed about the unearthly pale face. Brown eyes shut, and lips parted slightly in an almost silent scream, lying limply. Cold. Next to the dead Basilisk. Next to the open diary.

Next to Tom Riddle.

Anger flooded his body and Harry moved faster towards the barn, his heart racing as he did; the distant sound of horses closing in.

"Bob! Bob!" he saw a flash of movement in the corner of his eye and move towards it, only to see a strange clump in the middle of the grass. Moving cautiously nearer, he allowed the light of his lamp on it.

He gasped in shock, dropping the lantern and loosing his only light.

The image still remained regardless, pale brown eyes opened wide in fear—just like Ginny's. Dead. Blood and vomit, mixed with mud. Dead. Dead. Dead...

Bob was dead...

He couldn't think. Couldn't feel, couldn't breathe. The world was spinning, he had to get away. Away... Bile, rising in his throat. He stumbled backwards, half crawling half running. The image wouldn't leave. The blood... the skin... glossy eyes gray and grim.

Somehow, Harry managed to make his way back to the inn.

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Harry couldn't sleep, the image of the dead hobbit once more on his mind. He had to go, had to leave. He was going insane. He had to get back home. Had to save Ginny and help Hermione. Had to stop Riddle and rescue Ron. He had homework to do, McGonagall would want it on time. And Dumbledore need to know about the diary.

He need to go.

Find Gandalf.

Harry packed as much food as he could carry in a stolen bag, numbly leaving his entire earnings on the table for Butterbur. When the old bartender awoke, he'd find a simple letter saying he had gone and that he doubted he'd ever return again. In that same spidery scrawl, Harry signed his name at the bottom in an inelegant mess.

When dawn's first light began to rise, Harry left the inn and walked into the woods, his mind numb as he carried the heavy sword that defeated the Basilisk and many other easily forgotten foes. Bob's bloodied face still haunting his every step.

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"_Harry? Where are you? Why'd you leave us?" cried a bushy haired girl with kind brown eyes shrilly. "Don't you want to come home, Harry?"_

"_Yes Hermione!" he tried to shout back despite the huge gap between them. He watched her face in the distance awash with tears. "But I don't know how! Hermione help me, please!"_

"_Harry!" called another voice, he turned at once on to his side to see red hair vibrant and freckles. "Come home Harry! Come home!"_

"_But Ron! I don't know how!"_

"_Magic Harry..." called the voice as he got further and further away. "Magic..."_

"Magic..." Harry murmured before he awoke with a start. Magic...

Sighing, Harry sat up tiredly, rubbing beneath his eyes with dirty hands. Having been on the road for little more than a few days, Harry discovered he did not like it. No, Harry did not like it at all.

Sleeping on the ground where ants and mosquitoes and whatever other bugs could touch him was one thing, but the food was running low and his arms grew more leaded each day from carrying the heavy, muddy sword. His neck and legs already ached from the sun's red burns. It didn't help either that when he slept it was usually nightmares or dreams of his quickly fading home.

Swallowing another heavy sigh, Harry looked upwards towards the sun beyond the treetops. East. He needed to go East, hoping only that the sun rose and set the same way here as it did at home. Glancing about the ground, he found what he was looking for, the black pony dung he'd been following since he'd left.

Pulling on his stolen pack, Harry hefted the huge sword in his arms and started on his journey, not bothering with breakfast for the moment as he began the endless trek through the wilderness once more.

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Harry stripped eagerly as he found the small stream, his sword and gear left forgotten in an untidy pile near a large oak. It felt like forever since he'd last taken a bath, the smell of dirt and grim and sweat so common he'd learned to ignore it.

Scooting towards the edge of the quietly babbling brook, Harry looked down to see what he expected to be his face, only to find a gaunt wild boy staring back. His chaotic hair, which Aunt Petunia normally kept as short as possible now fell past his ears, his bangs obscuring anything above his glasses with a veil of unruly black clumps.

The glasses, which he tried to keep as clean as possible despite their cracked and lopsided nature, still managed to look as though they magnified his green eyes in a thousand pieces, making millions of green irises swiveled all around at every glance.

Sighing, Harry removed the optical instrument from his face before jumping into the beautiful, clear water.

Absolutely frozen water, he discovered moments later.

As quickly as possible, the young boy cleaned his hair and face before attempting to wash the worn and dirty clothes. He'd just finished his pants when something sharp pressed against his neck.

He froze with fear, dropping the clothes.

"What is this?" whispered a low voice in his ear, the smell of pine and sweat invading his nose. "Surely, not a little boy alone in the woods?"


	2. Chapter 2

Title

Raven'd Fleet

Chapter Two

Harry tried to glance down at the water, in hopes to see his attacker's reflection, but the man obviously realized it and pressed the knife harder.

"Why are you following us boy?"

Gulping down his fear, Harry did the only thing he could think to do. Pushing himself backwards into the man, he pressed his elbow into the groin area and threw his fist upwards, barely missing the jaw and hitting the nose instead. A hot liquid spread across his hand and he stomped on the foot. Harry stumbled away, ignoring his nude state as he scrambled to get his sword.

"Who are-" Harry paused, pulling his glasses to his face and looking at the bowed man. "Strider!"

Harry lowered his blade slightly but refused to take his eyes off the ranger now nursing his bleeding nose and other more painful areas. Harry was just about to ask the man exactly what the hell he thought he was doing when four midget sized bodies threw themselves against him. Painfully pushing Harry against the ground amongst the pine needles and rocks, a smirking ranger overhead.

"Strider, are you alright?" asked one of the little people atop Harry. He recognized the voice vaguely but couldn't name it. "We heard a shout-"

"And we thought you were in trouble-" rambled another one, Harry felt a pair of feet kick him in the side and grunted. What had he done to deserve this?

"Yes and-"

"Enough," commanded Strider, as he bent down, putting the knife far to close to Harry's throat. "You're to come with us. Grab your clothes. Sam, grab his sword and Merry, you grab his bag." He looked down at Harry, blue eyes darker than the night. "Attempt to run and you will most assuredly die."

With that, he motioned the people atop him to move and Harry, with strained slowness, stood and put on the still wet clothes. Despite the chill, Harry walked as best he could back to the group's camp a good walk away.

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"Why were you following us?" asked Strider once more, his face a hard line.

"Because you were going the same way I was." He replied, the same answer he'd given the last five times. He didn't know why the man kept asking it.

"And how do you know we are 'going the same way?'" the man inquired.

"Because you were moving East." Harry frowned as he heard the hobbits give a little titter and eat the handsome rabbit. He wanted some, but new better than to ask. They hardly trusted him anyways.

"There are many cities to the East," Strider clarified. "How do you know we are destined for the same one?"

"'Cause," answered Harry in a frustrated tone as he tried to hide a yawn. "I'm not sure which city I'm going to."

"So you admit to following us?"

"Yes," he answered simply.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why were you following us?"

Harry gave out a strangled growl and glared at the man. "Because we were going the same way!"

"You can't be sure of that."

Yes he could, he wanted to say, but Harry simply shut his mouth and pulled his legs closer to him. He heard a rustle and looked to see Mr. Underhill, the vanishing hobbit from Bree, staring at him with a slight frown.

"Mr. Harry, why were you following us?" asked the hobbit.

"Because we were-"

"Then why did you hide?" asked Mr. Underhill, cutting him off. "Why did you not come join us?"

"Because..." he trailed off, unsure. Because they were strangers? Because they could hide themselves so well? Because he didn't want them to hear him scream in the night? "I don't know."

The hobbit gave him sad eyes, as though he knew it was a lie.

"Well, we'd best be getting some sleep," decided a round hobbit with blondish curls. "Strider, do you want one of us too-"

"No," the man said as he backed away and leaned against a tree. "Sleep Sam, we have a long way to travel."

Harry saw them all nod in agreement and sighed softly. He wished his owl Hedwig were here, she'd cheer him up for sure. Laying back against the cold ground, Harry tried to remember the snowy owl with her kind yellow eyes.

Slowly, he descended to slumber.

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_The darkness was wanning, the thick, putrid smell of death and decay growing stronger and stronger as he ran. It was chasing him, the basilisk with the bloodied eyes. He could hear it behind him, hear it's words as it slithered._

"_Kill kill kill"_

_He ran and ran and ran, and he turned, watched the mouth crash about him, the fang driving into his arm. The poison and Fawke's tears._

_Hermione stood before him, her face livid._

"_Where are you Harry? Come home! Come home!"_

"_Come on mate," shouted Ron from the side. "We're waiting for you!"_

"_But I can't..." he tried to tell them. "My wand, I don't have a wand!"_

_They both laughed at him, and then they were multiplying. Seamus and Neville and Dean were all laughing as well as Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle. He watched them laugh, watched them point. Watched them blur._

"_Harry! Harry!"_

"Harry!"

He awoke with a start, his eyes coming open despite the crust around them as he looked up in alarm. He found Strider above him, blue eyes narrowed in confusion and something else.

"What...?" He glanced around to see the entire camp looking at him with fear and confusion.

"You were having a nightmare, Mr. Harry," answered Sam quietly. "Screamin' and shoutin' and all the like. Strider there was trying to wake you but you wouldn't..."

He frowned and nodded, looking down. A tense silence filled the area before Strider pulled himself to his feet, one last uncertain glare towards Harry.

"We leave in five minutes, you'd best pack quickly." And with that, the man faded from sight into the woods.

Hungry, Harry wondered if he should attempt to get food from his bag or ask the hobbits for some. He had no chance to ask for it, though, when Strider came back to make them hurry.

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"Say, Mr. Harry," spoke one of the hobbits about an hour into the walk. Merry, he thought the boy's name to be, or perhaps it was Pippin. The two were practically inseparable anyways. "What land do you hail from?"

"England," Harry replied with a small smile. Frodo, he noticed, looked back curiously and with confusion.

"I've never heard of such a place. Is it a part of Gondor?"

"No," the green eyed boy answered, unsure of where Gondor was. "It's an island in the far north, I think."

"What's it like?" inquired Sam curiously. "Does it have hobbits?" Harry frowned thoughtfully, unsure. They had midgets, he knew, but none quiet like the hobbits he'd met. None quiet like Bob...

"If so, I've never met them. But we do have gnomes and centaurs," he admitted, remembering his time in the forbidden forest and when he'd helped de-gnome the Weasley's garden earlier in the summer.

"Gnomes and Centaurs?" asked Frodo, finally joining in. "I've never heard of such people. What are they like?"

"Well," began Harry, thinking back to the mysterious inhabitants of the Forbidden forest. "The Centaurs are half horse half man and they're very mysterious and vague. Always talking about the stars and planets..."

"They sound almost like elves," replied Frodo thoughtfully. Harry noticed Sam perk at the words and smiled remembering Dobby the house-elf that had attempted to save him by trying to beat him up.

"We have elves as well," Harry answered and went on to describe the other creatures he knew of while listening to fascinating tales about a hobbit named Bilbo.

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"Harry, do not jest!" laughed Merry merrily. "No children of eleven could defeat a troll!"

Harry laughed as well, realizing at once how strange it sounded as he ate the food on his plate ravenously. He'd ended up telling them of a few of his adventures; stories of the ghost at his school and man-eating plants. Most of the time they didn't understand, but sometimes, such as these, they did. "But we did. Ron managed to levitate his club above his head while I distracted it."

"What I would like to know," interrupted Strider as he entered camp once more from his scouting, "is where the adults were during this excitement."

The hobbits looked on as Harry blushed red and lowered his eyes slightly in shame.

"They off searching the dungeons-"

"You had dungeons!" shouted Sam, his eyes wide, and Harry realized his mistake.

"Well yes, but no one was tortured in them if that's what you think—well, not unless you count potions—but still! It was just an old castle, and where was I..."

"The adults?" reminded Pippin, leaning forward in his seat.

"Yes well, while they were searching the dungeons, the troll had somehow gotten upstairs to the girl's loo-"

"The girl's what?"

"Loo," Harry answered, before feeling utterly stupid. These people had chamberpots, not loos. "The room where only girls use the chamberpots."

"But why would-" started Merry, but Sam cut him off with a hard glare, wanting to hear the full story. "Never mind."

"Yes, so we were looking for Hermione, who had left to cry in the loo because of something we'd said, when we found the troll, or rather it found us. The thing was enormous and smelled fouler than Pippin's cooking." He watched them laugh and smiled as well. "It was about to smash Hermione to bits, so we didn't have time to go get adults."

Strider nodded, though his eyes still seemed distrusting.

Harry wondered if the man would ever look at him with anything but.

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"Weathertop Mountain..." Harry whispered as he looked on towards the distant hill not quite as tall as those that surrounded Hogwarts. He wished he were back with his friends, wished none of this had ever happened.

Looking up, he stared at the silhouette of the moon—it's light broken in a laughing crescent. Night had fallen long ago and the hobbits were well asleep. He didn't bother to wonder where Strider was, the man could be anywhere and everywhere at the same time.

Vaguely, he remember walking under a light much the same as he tried to follow the spiders.

He gave a weak chuckle and hugged his legs to his chest. Aragog had not been the least bit happy to see Ron or himself. The giant Spider had gone so far as to send his baby spiders after them for a tasty morsel. Thankfully Ron's dad's car rescued them from the monsters. He gave a watery smile. They'd used the car to get to school and had crashed into the Womping Willow, a more violent tree he'd never met.

Snape had found them, of course. He'd been made to serve detention. He grinned, recollecting on Lockhart's fan-mail, only to frown, recalling the invisible voice and the attacks. Ms. Norris, Colin Creevy, Nearly Headless Nick... Hermione had figured it out, she always did.

He felt the tears well up but pressed them back. Hermione, the bushy haired genius with buck teeth, and Ron, the red haired Weasley from a poor but loving family that could out maneuver anyone in chess. He missed them both and closed his eyes with a soft sob.

He had to be strong.

He couldn't cry... he couldn't... he couldn't... he...

He broke down and let the tears flow, oblivious to anything besides the pain and loss. He never noticed the blue eyes that watched on in silence.

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It took two long days of walking, but the group finally managed to make it to the top of Weathertop Mountain. When they did make it, Harry found the sight breathtaking. Miles on every side of nothing but trees and wilderness. The world around him seemed to spread out for an eternity, disappearing behind the sun's bright glare and the sky's heavy mantle.

"We found it Strider!" Harry looked over and frowned as he watched them gather around a small stone, almost insignificant in the beautiful ruins. "Gandalf! Gandalf was here!"

The green eyed youth frowned. They knew Gandalf? But weren't wizards supposed to keep their magic to themselves? But then again, Butterbur had known—but Harry had thought that just a coincidence, maybe he'd had muggleborn children, or had married a witch. Looking back now, Harry found the assumption ridiculous.

Looking back at the horizon, something caught his eye.

Black shadows moving across the Earth... Looking closer, Harry's forehead and forearm both lit with pain as he stumbled backwards, slipping on the rocks as he went.

"Harry?" called Frodo, having noticed his fall.

"Shadows..." he gushed, still feeling the echoes of pain. "Moving shadows..."

Strider strode forward, looking out before cursing angrily in some language Harry didn't recognize. He pulled Harry to his feet and motioned for them to move together. He went to Bill the pony and took out several clothes, handing each hobbit a dagger and Harry his sword.

"You'd do best," whispered Strider, his blue eyes hard and fierce, "not to mislead my trust, Harry of England." He stood then, pushing Harry towards the hobbits. "They have seen us and will be here by nightfall. Ready yourselves for battle."

Harry fidgeted, having not fought since the basilisk but made no other comment. Looking at the hobbits, he watched them huddle together, obviously terrified.

"Harry..." whispered Merry, when the light of the sun had almost all disappeared. "What are you doing? Aren't you scare?d"

He smiled tightly at the hobbit before nodding and looking back towards the wood in his hand. Maybe if he could just make a wand... he'd asked to borrow Strider's knife and the man had allowed it, though suspiciously. "I'm making a... well it doesn't matter. But of course I'm scare! But you just have to bare it, everything'll be alright if you just don't stop."

Merry frowned but nodded all the same. He looked about ready to say something else when a high-pitched shriek filled the air.

"They're here..." whispered Frodo, and Harry fought the urge to look at the small hobbit after the strange tone. But indeed, the shadows were there.

"Give it too us..." whispered one of the riders as two more easily joined it. Black Riders... He stared after them, the pain in his forehead horrible and unrelenting. "Give it to us..."

"Never!" he heard Frodo shout, and the battle commenced, if it could be called that. He lifted the sword, ignoring the pain in his arm as he swung the blade forward, only to hear it ring with the other creature's blade.

He fought as best he could, moving clumsily and with neither grace nor balance. The creature blocked his attempts easily, flinging him back even as he tried to move forward. He fell into one of the stones behind him harshly and heard a voice call his name.

Ears ringing, Harry forced himself to his feet, only barely able to stand before he threw himself at the rider headed for Frodo. He wouldn't loose another. Hermione's face, frozen in terror. Ginny's red hair flowing about her as though in slumber. Bob's brown eyes, startled in a silent scream.

He felt the rage and pulled on it for strength, feeding it with memory after memory.

"_Scared Potter?" Malfoy drawled, his blonde hair shimmering beneath the glow of candles as they faced off, his wand rising up in salute._

"_You wish!" Harry replied in turn, pulling his own wand up._

He moved forward, pulling the sword down with a mighty force and colliding it with the other object blocking his way. He sneered and pulled the make-shift wand from his pocket, hopping beyond hope it worked. What had Hagrid said? Wandless magic done when one was feeling frightened or angry...

He pulled once more on his rage, trying to focus it through the stick.

"INCENDIO!"

A slight spark lit up the end and Harry watched it jump onto the Rider's cloaks before becoming a blazing inferno as the wand crumbled to ash. The Rider shrieked angrily and in fear as it ran from the area. Drained, Harry fell to his knees just in time to see Frodo disappear once more and to watch a different rider stab him with his blade.

Harry felt the bile rise up in his throat as Frodo returned, his body slumped against the ground, his shoulder bleeding. He watched Strider chase away the last of the riders, his torch inflaming them easily.

"He's been wounded," stated Strider, his voice tight and tired at the same time. "The blade is poisoned. Sam, I need you to find me Athelas. It's also called Kingfoil-"

"I know that one!" shouted Sam as he moved away, dagger out. "Don't worry Mr. Frodo, I'll be right back."

"Pippin, grab some wood," instructed Strider. "Merry go fill a pan with water."

"What should I do?" Harry asked Strider, his voice hollow and gritty. He saw the man open his mouth to answer, but then watched him close it momentarily in thought.

"Are you hurt?" asked the man. Harry might have called the tone kind, if not for the grim and uncaring nature behind it. Harry shook his head before wincing at the motion. Frodo need attention, not him. He'd be fine, he always was, but Frodo wouldn't and he couldn't loose another. Not like Bob... Face frozen in horror and death, mouth bleeding and eyes wide and unseeing.

"You're lying," Strider murmured, his thumb wiping away something from his head. "It would be easier to trust you if you would tell the truth."

"But I-"

"Enough," the ranger stared at him for a moment before seeming to decide something. "How old are you, boy?"

"Twelve," Harry answered, unsure of why he'd be asked such a question. He saw no response except the slight stiffness in the man's body. "Why? Shouldn't you be helping Frodo?"

"Frodo is beyond my ability to help at the moment."

Harry lost his breath. Beyond his help? Beyond... No! He wouldn't loose Frodo! No, he couldn't! "No... No!"

"You fought valiantly today," stated Strider, his words moving Harry oddly. Frodo slipped from his mind as the ranger moved forward, his hands coming up and around his neck, and then, before he realized what was happening, his eyes were rolling backwards and he was falling to the ground.

He didn't remember ever hitting it though.

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"Harry," called a familiar voice he vaguely recognized. "Come on Harry, it's time to awake. It's well past Morn."

He opened his eyes slowly to a blur of blue and yellowed gray. Looking around, he noticed they'd moved, but he didn't remember ever walking.

"Wh-" he stopped talking, feeling the painful hoarsness in his voice. How long had he been asleep?

"Here Harry, Strider said you'd need it when you woke up." A burning liquid rushed past his lips and Harry couldn't help but sputter at the awful taste.

"That's disgusting!"

He heard laughter and glared at the faces, only to stop at the slight smile on Frodo's face. The young hobbit looked pale and far from healthy.

"Frodo...?" the little hobbit gave a small smile before closing his eyes.

"We'll be upon Rivendell in a day or so," spoke a deep voice. Harry looked up to see Strider standing broad-shouldered and grim before them all. "It'd be best to go on now that we are all awakened."

Harry frowned before turning to Sam.

"How long have I been asleep?"

"Five days and five nights on the morrow," responded Sam sullenly. "Me thinks, it'd have been more, but Strider was tiring from your burden."

Strider was... His eyes flew towards the ranger already moving the hobbits about. Had he carried him for five days? Surely not! But then... Harry frowned and glared at his feet, feeling his face flush in embarrassment. No one had ever carried him, well perhaps his mother, but he could hardly recall her, except green flashes in the middle of the night.

"Harry?"

Harry smiled and picked up his bag and his sword, noticing at once that some of the blood had been wiped away. He held it close and begun walking, it would be a very long day.

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The party was sitting under the shadow of a group of Trolls, Pippin had mistaken for live ones earlier. Apparently Gandalf the wizard had turned them all to stone while he was Traveling abroad with Frodo's Uncle Bilbo. Eating food, a rabbit Strider had caught in the wild, a sudden sound of horse hooves resounded through the air. Harry glanced sideways, feeling the fear well in his belly. Riders... The Black Riders had found them.

He stood suddenly, grabbing his sword and bag and pulling Pippin to his feet. They need to hide. They wouldn't outrun the monsters, but they could conceal themselves in the forest to wait and let the riders pass them.

Harry kicked the remains of the fire, burying the ashes under dirt.

"Hurry!" Strider cried as he pushed Merry onward into the woods near himself. "Hide!"

The hooves were getting louder and louder as they dashed as deep into the woods as they dared; Sam leading Frodo, still sick from the poisoned blade, while Pippin rocked with fright beside him. Harry could see him sweating despite the October sky and listened without thought to his incessant mumbling, almost singing, almost as though in prayer. Strider had ducking down, half hidden near the road, his body taunt and rigid and eyes darting about.

Harry's gaze attached itself once more to the road. Searching... Searching for any sign of the dark riders.

The hooves were growing nearer like a broad storm chasing through the skies... They were almost upon them, the roaring clatter of stomping hooves deafening.

Suddenly something large voluminous bursts out from the bushes. Harry only a had a moment to glance at the figure as he crouched down, dragging Pippin with him to the ground.

Heart pounding in his chest and throat, Harry could hear the rider stop, the horse's distinct neighs as it pawed the ground. Pippin covered his ears at the noise, and Harry tried to swallow a whimper of his own.

"Hail! Hail and well meet! It is I, Glorfindel!" The voice sounded like nothing he'd ever heard. Light and melodically, the green eyed youth ignored his curiosity, well aware of what it might mean should he be wrong. He kept his head ducked low and Pippin with him.

"Glorfindel!" cried Strider, having betrayed his hiding place. "Come out friends, we shall find no enemy from this rider!"

"Indeed not," replied Glorfindel as Harry pulled Pippin cautiously to his feet, still unsure with his own heavy blade carefully outstretched and ready to wield. The blonde man seemed to radiate power and light, his face ethereal and youthful despite his obvious wisdom and age. The angelic creature looked towards Frodo. "Alas, he is beyond my healing. Come, young hobbit. My horse shall bare you to Rivendell safely."

Harry frowned as the man pulled the hobbit up off the pony and onto his own steed. Strider seemed to find it acceptable though, his face still alight with a sturdy grin.

"Come, we must make haste," announced Glorfindel as he motioned for them to move, "I have ridden for nine days in search of you and your burden. There are five enemies behind us. They wish to trap us here."

Harry hauled up his sword and bag and begun to follow after the two. They marched for what seemed an eternity, only stopping to rest when Merry tripped and Sam begged he could go no further. They were allowed to rest and eat for a few moments before the demonic man roused them once more, giving them some burning liquid that somehow seemed to revive.

At a breakneck pace that seemed to tire even Strider, they passed through the hills and mountainous region, stopping only when absolutely necessary and rising once more to journey even through night.

"The ford of Rivendell..."

Harry looked up, his green eyes falling upon the auburn curls of Merry's still head.

"Merry?" murmured Harry, unsure and curious. "Is something wrong?"

"No..." the hobbit shook his head a mustered a tired grin. "It is only that we have come a very long way from home. Is it not beautiful?"

Harry looked down at the ravine, watching the water trickle, he prepared to answer when the demon-man cut him off.

"Fly! Fly! The enemy is upon us!" cried Glorfindel as he twisted around, gold hair flying in the wind while he drew his sword. Harry felt his gut clench and looked towards Frodo, still pale and sickly as the majestic white horse took flight.

Harry stopped running almost as soon as he had, drawing a thin red-wood wand from his pocket. He'd been carving it as best he could since he'd awoken after their race from Weathertop, having to start again six times, Harry had finally managed to get it the proper size and weight as his old one.

Looking down at the carved stick, Harry hoped it worked.

Fire. Fire. Fire.

He continued the mantra even as he heard the horses neigh and the black riders break past the gate and Glorfindel's defenses.

Fire. Fire. Fire.

The sound of approaching hooves was coming closer, the pain in his scar growing more uncomfortable by the second. Images were reawakening, the sound of a dying scream and a high pitched laugh. Flashes of green and the roar of a motor. Dudley chasing him up a tree. Aunt Petunia refusing him a lolly. Uncle Vernon pushing him in the cupboard beneath the stairs.

Fire. Fire. Fire.

The letters that announced him a wizard. Hagrid. Hermione and Ron. A talking hat.

Fire. Fire. Fire.

He opened his eyes watching the black hooded demons near him. Without glancing down, he raised the wand to his eyes, remembering the heat and the light and the power. He wouldn't let them have Frodo. He wouldn't loose another...

Hermione. Ginny. Bob.

Not Frodo, not Frodo.

"INCENDIO!"

He felt the magic rush from him, as though plunged in an icy sea. Two of the creatures shrieked in horror, their black cloaks alight again, while the other two chased around him, bound for Frodo.

Falling to his knees, he watched in satisfaction as the creatures fled in terror and pain, taking with them his pain and consciousness.

As though into a black abyss, Harry descended numbly.


	3. Chapter 3

Delusional

Raven'd Fleet

Chapter Three

"It is well to see you awake, Harry..."

Green eyes opened slowly to the blur of the world. He reached out, attempting to find his glasses, though he didn't remember taking them off. He didn't remember much of anything though, besides the purring content of blackness and a whispered voice of strength.

Something wiry and cold pressed against his face, poking his ear and head as they slid awkwardly upon his nose. Looking up, he saw Strider smiling slightly, blue eyes kind, and he remembered; Hermione and Ginny, Butterbur and Bob, Merry, Pippin, Sam, and Frodo...

"Frodo!" he shouted, only to wince at the sound and pain.

"Be still child," muttered Strider, his face disapproving. "Do you wish to undo all the work Lord Elrond has done? I thought not. Your friends are all fine. Frodo has yet to awaken, but he is well all the same. Most likely due to your own foolish stunt."

Harry blushed and looked down sheepishly. He'd only been trying to help.

"Truly, Aragorn, there is no reason to be so harsh." The green eyed youth looked up, confused at the new voice in the doorway, only to find a tall man older than any Harry had ever seen. His face, aged and wrinkled, seemed to hold a timeless quality, the white hair of his beard spreading wildly over his chest as though windblown and stormy. He wore gray robes, voluminous and light, while his pointed hat fell sideways, wrinkling its tattered cloth and falling behind his ear. "After all, if not for him, Frodo well may not have made it to the saftey of the Ford."

Harry recognized the man instantly despite having never met him.

"Gandalf..."

"Ah, yes, my boy. I am indeed Gandalf the Gray. I understand you have asked for me?"

"Then I will excuse myself," stated Strider, standing suddenly with startling speed. Harry wanted to call to him to wait, to ask him to stay, to beg him not to leave. If he were perhaps braver, he may have, but he didn't ask for things he would not get. No one said anything as Strider moved away, passing them both without pause and leaving without another word.

Harry turned towards the wizard then, opening his mouth to ask in a vexed tone what the hell he wanted, when the young wizard noticed a strained look upon the man's wizened features. Something akin to pain, or perhaps fear. It looked foreign and exotic, passing on with a sense of dreadful anticipation. The look unnerved him.

"Mr. Gandalf?" Harry asked, breaking the man from his stupor. Blue eyes turned to him, and Harry could see the wisdom and compassion in them. "Er- I... um..."

The wizard smiled slightly. "You wish my help in returning home?" Harry frowned. How had he known that? He'd told no one, not even Butterbur or Frodo, though he'd been tempted to many times. "Don't look so stunned, you and Frodo both talk in your sleep so I have already discovered much of your journey. I would have asked the tale of you earlier, when we first met in Bree, though you were unconscious and probably do not remember; you talked then as well, mumbling beneath your breath of _'Riddle. Riddle!'_ and other such nonsense which by now has become much clearer after many talks with Aragorn and the young hobbits."

Harry nodded, his stomach shifting at the thought of returning home. Somehow, he didn't feel so certain of it now. But he had a job, he needed to save Ginny, needed to help Hermione, need to destroy Riddle. Ron couldn't save the castle alone, though he did have Lockhart, not that Harry counted the fraud as much help.

But he didn't _want_ to do it anymore. He didn't want to go back to the curious stares and the hissing whispers in the dark.

He just wanted to be normal. Why couldn't he just be normal?

"You called Strider, Aragorn, why?" The wizard looked stunned and confused by the sudden change of topics and Harry wondered why.

"Because it is his name. But if you wish to learn more," stated Gandalf before Harry could ask more, "it is Aragorn's story to tell, and his alone. Though I do not doubt he would probably tell it should you ask, he has become most attached to you. For whatever reason, he has barely left your side since you were found by the elves."

Harry blinked. Strider had... Aragorn had stayed by his side? But why? No one had ever... Except maybe the quidditch team, but he knew they were only protecting their seeker. What did Strider—no Aragorn, have to gain from it? Why would he?

"All the same, the hobbits too have been out of their mind with worry. Whatever you did, caused a small fire, nearly burning you and the Nazgul. Had Elrond's sons not found you in time... Well, that is neither here nor there. When you feel well enough rested, the table of the elves awaits you, you are far to thin."

Harry nodded and watched the man stand, his robes rustling as he left.

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Many hours later, when the sun had nearly spent itself and the moon already wadded through the eastern sky, Harry awoke again. Climbing from beneath the heavy, warm covers, he found a tunic of green already laid for him on the bed. After several tries he managed to get it and the green hoses on, though they were highly uncomfortable and strange.

Looking into a mirror beside his bed, Harry found the stranger vaguely familiar.

His face, which had always been thin and pale, was now red and brown from the heat and sun during their travels. Someone, he imagined Gandalf was the culprit, had managed to fix his lenses, though the thick black circular frames were still crooked as usual. But he found his hair, which was normally kept short by Aunt Petunia's horrible scissors, was longer than he'd ever seen it. The ragged, unmanageable black twines falling into his eyes and over his shoulders.

He looked at the tangles and stifled a whimper. He was _not_ dragging those out.

"Harry?" He looked over, nodding as Sam walked through the door. He watched the blonde hobbit look at him and blush brightly, ducking his head.

"Morning Sam. Is something wrong?"

"Oh no! Gandalf sent me to come and ask you if you were ready to come down for food. I had though it a jest." The curly haired hobbit looked up, and Harry saw the worry. "When the elves brought you back, we'd all thought you dead."

Harry frowned. He hadn't meant to worry anyone, but the rumble of his stomach changed his thoughts. He looked at Sam and blushed brightly as well.

"You mentioned food?"

"Aye!" exclaimed Sam with his usual vigor, as hobbits normally were, Harry discovered during their travels. "Gandalf says Frodo shall wake in a day or so, and when he is, we shall have a feast!"

Harry nodded and together, the two guided the large city in hopes to fill their stomaches.

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Just as Sam said, Lord Elrond hosted a great feast at Frodo's convenience. The elves, Harry discovered, were nothing like those of his home. Whereas Dobby seemed small and weak with a green body and ragged clothes, the elves of Rivendell could only be described as the exact opposite. Tall and proud, they seemed each possessed with impossible strength and grace as well as angelic beauty. He'd even managed to witness one shoot eleven arrows from a longbow without pausing or missing his mark—a buckle-sized target a good twenty feet away.

All the same, the King of elves was nothing he'd ever witnessed before. Majestic. He walked with grace and spoke regally, his voice lyrical and calm like a breaking dawn whispering amongst the trees. The feast he held was delicious and the company more different than any Harry had ever witnessed. When they had all eaten their share the group followed Lord Elrond and the most beautiful elf Harry had ever seen into a large room. The hall was large and illuminating, a poet in the corner and elves everywhere.

"Harry?" He turned at the voice, smiling to find Frodo moving towards him. "Oh! Harry it is a pleasure to see you. Sam has told me what you did, facing two riders unarmed but with fire! What wonderful news to see you well!"

Harry laughed at Frodo's enthusiasm, banishing some heavy weight that he hadn't realized he bore. Could the hobbit's opinion matter so much already? Had he grown too close to these strangers despite his foreknowledge that he would leave soon? The hobbit wrapped his arms around Harry's middle, grabbing him in a hug before he realized it.

He stiffened at the touch but slowly returned it.

"Come Harry! Come meet my Uncle Bilbo, you remember the stories? He was a part of the Battle of Five Armies, a most astonishing tale. Come! Come!" Uncle Bilbo, as it turned out, was a round little hobbit with wild gray hair and furious wrinkles. Harry barely recalled Pippin spouting out nonsense of the man's birthday during their stay at the Prancing Pony Inn which seemed so long ago.

They stayed their for an hour, listening to stories before the old hobbit began singing an elven song he'd created. After that, Harry made his way elsewhere, wandering until he heard a very loud snicker.

"What are you laughing at?" Harry asked, turning at once to see a long, gray bearded dwarf drinking ale alone.

"Naught but your clothes, lad." chuckled the short, broad man.

"What's wrong with my clothes?" The green eyed wizard frowned with confusion.

"Why they are backwards and wrong way out! Surely you have noticed the stares?" Harry blushed bright red. He had become so accustomed to people staring at his scar and himself, he'd taken to ignoring it. Of course, it explained Sam's strange reaction and Bilbo's odd looks.

"Oh..." he replied, sitting down besides the large man. "Er- I'm Harry."

"Gloin son of Thorin," puffed the dwarf proudly. "I hear you came with four hobbits. An exciting tale, no doubt."

"It was," he agreed, but reluctant to tell. He turned to say something else, but saw Bilbo stand before the elves. As he begun to read, Harry felt a slow tiredness drain at his eyes. And, before he knew it, he'd fallen asleep at the table beside Gloin.

A few hours later, he was roused by the dwarf and made his way to his own room.

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The next morning, Harry awoke early feeling refreshed and vitalized. Putting on the clothes laid out for him, this time mindful of the inside and outside, the green eyed youth journeyed outside, listening to the children dash about and sing soothing lullabies.

As he wandered, he thought he heard voices. Following the sounds swiftly, he found himself staring into a meeting of some sort with many of the guest from the night before and some not. Frodo sat beside Elrond while Gloin sat a little ways away, surrounded by some of his own brethren. Elves, as beautiful as any he'd seen before, sat across and a man with a face of royalty and power next to them.

Strider—Aragorn stood in a dark corner, wearing his traveling clothes and muddy boots.

He listened silently as Elrond spoke, realizing he was at some sort of meeting of a sort, telling the tale of rings of power and the dark lord Sauron. The forging of nine rings for men, and how they fell corrupted to the power. Seven for the dwarves, all but lost over the centuries until the messenger of Sauron offered them once more. Three for the elven kingdom, hidden away. And the last, forged in secret by the fires of mount doom.

Harry stood silently as the elf told of names Harry did not recognize as well as stories that seemed almost fantastical. A man taking up his father's broken sword and cutting the ring off the Dark Lord's hand.

It reminded Harry of his own story.

Boromir, as he learned the regal man's name to be, then stood, telling tales of Gondor and some sort of prophecy about a halfling and a broken sword.

"And here in the house of Elrond all shall be made clear to you," said Aragorn standing up. He cast his sword upon the table before Elrond, and Harry noticed at once that it was shattered in two pieces. "Here is the blade that has been broken!"

"And who are you, and what have you to do with Minas Tirith?"asked Boromir in wonder.

"He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn," said Elrond; "and he is descended through many fathers from Isildur, Elendil's son of Minas Ithil. He is chief of Dunedain in the North, and few are now left of that folk."

"Then it belongs to you!" shouted Frodo, holding out the ring. And Harry could suddenly see only the object, watching as it glimmer beneath warm sun. It chilled him and burned him at the same time, making him repulsed and yet almost calling for him. He wanted it, damning anything else. He wanted the strange ring and it's beauty. His attraction broke though, as he listened then to an argument between Bilbo and Boromir over Strider—Aragorn's honor. He felt his respect for the hobbit raise and then listened to Frodo's uncle tell of how he obtained the ring from a creature called Gollum. Gandalf, stood then, and told of scrolls and journals created by Isildur as he refused to throw the ring into the fires of Mt. Doom.

Gandalf moved suddenly his voice becoming dark and insipid as he echoed words Harry didn't understand, that cast a shadow across the grounds.

"_Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatulûk, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul."_

Harry felt his scar burn and fell to his knees, unable to stop the burning agony that pressed against the lightening shaped scar upon his brow and the remains of the bite in his arm. And then, the next moment it was gone, and Harry tried to control his breathing as he watched carefully from behind the bushes, sensing the importance.

"Never before has anyone dared to utter words of that tongue in Imladris, Gandalf the Gray," said Elrond, his eyes dark even from the distance.

"And let us hope none shall speak it here again. I do beg your pardon Lord Elrond, for the words may yet be heard in every corner of the world! In the common tongue, it is: _One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them."_

An elf then rose, Legolas son of Thranduil, who told biddings of the escape of Gollum, a once hobbit that fell to the madness of the ring. Gandalf, once more after him, stood and told of a wizard named Sarumon and his betrayal as well as his perilous escape. He told of how he came to the shire in search of the hobbits, and Harry almost sprung from his hiding place when he learned the old wizard had threatened Butterbur, his old friend and helpful companion. But then, quite oddly, Harry heard them call attention to himself.

"A most strange occurrence has happened though, that I had not accounted. A young boy, aged twelve despite his appearance of less, journeyed with the hobbits and Strider," recounted Gandalf. "I was told by Butterbur that the boy, Harry as he calls himself, was found in the woods just outside the stables, terribly sick with fever and carrying only a bloody sword, he looked to have been abandoned so the old man took him in.

"'A good worker and a good lad,' had said Butterbur fondly, 'though a bit strange.'" He watched Frodo rise to his own defense and smiled as the council of people chuckled.

"What is your point, Gandalf?" asked Elrond, his hands clasped together as he listened. "Surely you do not thing this boy a threat?"

"Ah!" cried the wizard agreeably, "Indeed not. I only mention him now because I believe him to be an Istari."

And with those words, the counsel erupted into chaos.

"QUIET!" roared the elven lord, his face drawn tight in disapproval at the wizard. The effect was immediate, much like when Dumbledore had done the same his first year at the Halloween Feast. Elrond looked at Gandalf sharply. "I do hope you jest, an Istari, surely not?"

"Oh! But I do not!" explained the elderly man. "He has managed twice, to my knowledge, to create fire from but a mere twig of a staff."

"Would he aid us against the Dark Lord Sauron?" called Boromir and Harry noticed Strider stiffen in the corner. Bilbo must have seen it as well, for he rose at once in challenge.

"He is but a boy!" cried the old hobbit with anger. "Surely you can not think to have a child go to war?"

Gloin stood as well then. "I myself, have met the boy, though only for a few minutes in the hall of fire. He is hardly able to dress himself, not realizing which way a tunic goes much less the correct wear of his hoses. Wizard or not, he is still a child and unable to fight."

Harry felt his face flush as the elves seemed to draw comprehending faces, obviously remembering his attire. One even dared to snicker! Boromir, however, did not appear finished.

"If the boy is indeed an Istari, should we not call his power despite his age? Gondor stands on the border against Mordor and long have we fought to keep the dark powers at bay. Our strength is wanning and our hope grows dim! Already you say Saruman the wise has turned, the Dark Lord is almost at full strength, our list of allies grows thin. My people need hope! Let the boy fight, should he be able."

"The boy does not wish to fight," Gandalf replied easily, breaking the tense mood. "He is not of our plane, but another, and has asked my help in returning him there."

"_He_," drawled Harry as he pushed his way from the bushes, tired of hearing himself discussed and annoyed that no one seemed to think him capable of anything; "can speak for himself and would wish that you all not gossip like a bunch of old ladies."

That, obviously, was hardly the thing to say.

The elves, all jumped in surprise and alarm while Gandalf swept around, his blue eyes narrowed. The dwarves seemed shocked as well, though gleeful for some reason Harry could not discern. He looked up to see Frodo laughing silently while Aragorn scowled with disapproval.

Elrond did not look happy at all.

"So you can, young Harry," agreed Elrond lightly with an undercurrent of annoyance. "It is also quite obvious you can hear, or rather eavesdrop. Admirable qualities for certain."

Harry ignored the sarcasm and glared at the elf and Gandalf. "I do not see why I was not invited, if I was to be discussed. It is just as rude."

"Indeed," concurred Aragorn, and Harry watched the ranger walk forward. "However, you will have no part in this fight so it matters little."

Harry scowled then too. Why did they always have to treat him like this? He was hardly little and could fight just as well as Frodo.

"Come," demanded the man, and when Harry still refused to do so, grabbed his ear and twisted it harshly. He cried out in pain as he was dragged from the counsel and into another area of Rivendell. "What did you think to accomplish?" growled the man, as soon as they were far enough out of earshot. He released Harry's ear and glared into the angry green eyes. "Do you wish to die?"

"No-"

"Then what was the meaning of that- that- charade! Surely you are not so stupid? Those are some of the most influential people in Middle Earth and you called the women!"

"I _compared_ them to women-"

"ENOUGH!" shouted Aragorn, obviously more angry than Harry had thought. He shut his eyes, leaning forward. "Enough, Harry. You may come join us again, only you will be silent and not interrupt. You may speak only should a member of the council ask you to. Do you understand?"

Harry nodded, and the man glared, grabbing hold of Harry's ear again.

"_Do __you_ _understand_, Harry?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. Now come along."

He did not let go of Harry's ear, but he loosened his pinching grip. No one acknowledged their return, though he could see Gloin hiding a snicker and Frodo smiling despite himself. Harry scowled but said nothing otherwise.

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"I want to help." Harry said when the council was over and fellowship was chosen. Gandalf, Legolas, Gimli son of Gloin, Aragorn, Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin.

"Out of the question," commented Aragorn as he pulled Harry along.

"But you heard Gandalf, he doubts he'll be able to send me home because of the dark magic in the air, why can't I come with you and help? I'll be useful! I can cook and clean, I've been able to for ages."

"No Harry. It is too dangerous."

"But Merry, Pippin, and Sam all get to and I fight just as well as they!" He replied in kind, feeling his anger at the unfairness well once more.

"They come because Gandalf and Elrond rightly feel someone of each race should go forth on the quest to destroy the ring. We already have two men, and besides that you are too young."

"So! Gandalf is too old! He's so ancient, he needs a walking stick!"

"Now you are being unreasonably childish. Gandalf is a wizard. A _powerful _wizard," he added as Harry opened his mouth to argue. "You are a boy and as such, should remain here where it is safe as boys do. Please Harry."

"But Aragorn..." he cut off as the man stood tall, his form towering over Harry like a majestic king.

"NO!" shouted Aragorn, his voice more harsh than Harry had ever heard it. The sound left him hollow and fearful and he flinched away from the outstretched hand. The ranger sighed wearily, his eyes falling shut. "No, Harry. The decision is final."

Harry felt his eyes water and ignored them, glaring at the ranger angrily. Had he not fought a troll and Quirell at eleven? Had he not fought the basilisk months earlier? He wasn't a baby! He wasn't weak or stupid! He could help! He could!

He turned away and fled, feeling the liquid fall from his eyes.

It wasn't fair.

But when was it ever?

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Gandalf couldn't send him home.

He had flickered for a moment, or so he'd been told, and he'd almost thought he'd heard a maniacal laughter, but then he'd opened his eyes and seen a highly confused Gandalf frowning at him, muttering about unreliable curses or something of the sort.

And now he had nothing. His friends from Hogwarts were most likely all dead by now. It'd been months since he'd last seen them and even if Ron had escaped, Hermione, still petrified, would have been in no state to defend herself from the Dark Lord's revitalized state. Ginny was beyond a doubt dead, having been dying in the hours he'd tried to help her. Hedwig was probably gone as well.

He'd failed them there, and now here as well.

Strider hadn't been happy in the least to learn Harry was still there. In fact, he seemed almost furious. Somehow, the thought hurt more than expected. Did he really want Harry gone so badly?

"Harry Potter?" called a voice from the door. He ignored it, as he did the others. He didn't want to see anyone. He didn't want to look at their pitying face or see their ruthless compassion. He wanted to go home! He wanted to be normal! He wanted away from everything... "Harry Potter, surely you would open the door for an old hobbit such as myself?"

He looked at the door inquisitively despite his sadness. Bilbo? Slowly, he got up from his bed and opened it for the little old man. Without a pause, the hobbit scurried inside, glancing about the wooden interior with a cheerful expression. It did little to help Harry's sour mood.

"Ah! Young Harry!" smiled Bilbo as he pulled himself upon the bed almost as tall as himself. "Come, let us sit and talk. I would much like to hear of that home of yours. Frodo happened to mention you've fought a troll. I'd be most interested to hear the tale?"

Harry stifled a sigh.

He hardly felt like retelling that story at the moment. But, seeing the eager expression on the hobbit's face, he couldn't find it in him to disappoint Bilbo as well. "I was searching for my friend Hermione who had hidden herself among the chamberpots," he begun, telling the story for what felt like the thousandth time. It was one of Frodo's favorites during their travels. "When suddenly we smelt something terribly rank-"

"Rank?"

"Foul," he corrected with a roll of his eyes, his sadness dispersing a little and he lifted his lips in a half smile.

"Yes, yes. Continue?"

"We found Hermione, but at the terrible smell, we discovered she wasn't alone. A troll! The troll that should have been in the dungeons was in the same room with Hermione. We watched it smash a few chamberpots before it almost hit Hermione. Being afraid, and highly stupid, we started throwing rocks at it to get it's attention. When it didn't pay much attention, I managed to climb on it's back and stick my wan—a stick up it's nose. Angry, it grabbed me off it's back and started swing it's club at me while holding me upside down.

"Next thing I know, Ron's levitating the troll's club above his head. It falls and knocks the troll out. Then the Prof—adults arrived."

Bilbo chuckled and patted Harry's knee affectionately. The touch felt awkward and strange. "A gallant tale, my boy, though perhaps not all as great as the deed itself. Will you tell me another?"

He did, going over all the exciting tales until he couldn't take it and finally collapsed in tear, his pride was nothing compared to the vulnerable black hole that seemed to be his chest. His stomach ached and his throat burned with emotion as he tried speak past the lump choking his every word. He spilled everything to the little old man, telling him about his family and his cupboard. He told him of the joy he'd found when Hagrid, his giant friend, had delivered the letter and how excited. His first birthday present and his first friend. He talked about the Dursleys and the Weasleys, talking of Dobby the house-elf who was forced to beat himself and who cried at unexpected kindness. The warning and the diary. The basilisk and the spiders. Hermione and Ron and Ginny and Fawkes and Riddle.

He talked until he could talk no more.

"And then you came to Middle Earth?" said the man kindly, his aged eyes filled with tears as well, though unshed. "It is no wonder you miss your friends, but starving yourself in a room will accomplish nothing!"

Springing to his feet from the bed, the young hobbit grinned suddenly.

"And if there is one thing we Hobbits can do, that is eat. Come along, you looked half-starved when you arrived anyways." Harry nodded slowly before joining Bilbo on a raid of the kitchens. He ate little, but when they finished, he felt stuffed all the same.

"And now, young Harry," said Bilbo with a smile, "we come to a decision. I shall make you a deal."

"What kind of deal?" Harry asked, suddenly wary.

"A small wager, nothing terribly great, I don't suppose; but a wager all the same. I hear that you are a wizard, which you did most certainly not deny, and that you can make fire from nothing." Harry nodded, still unsure where this was going. "Well, should you make fire bloom in your hand, as though a flower, and hold it there without wood or kindling, then I shall give you my maps and show you the route to find your friends." Harry felt his eyes grow round in surprise. Bilbo would help him! He wouldn't be lost without his friends this time! He could...

He stopped, suddenly suspicious.

"What do you want in return?"

Bilbo grinned. "Just a small token. I want to write your story."

Harry grinned as well. "Deal."

Shaking hands, Harry rushed away to find a stick and knife. He wouldn't fail! He couldn't! He would make fire bloom in his hand if it was the last thing he did!


	4. Chapter 4

Delusional

Raven'd Fleet

Chapter Four

Making fire would defiantly be the last thing he did.

Harry shifted through the shadows, green eyes locked against the curling crimson locks. The dwarf moved forward with a confident gait, arrogant movement betraying his simplicity. This would be easy, perhaps a little to easy. The young wizard glanced a moment at the hazardous ax upon the dwarf's broad shoulder.

Just a moment... A moment...

He sprang then, as the unsubtle creature neared the corner, jumping from the darkness and upon the man's shadow. He tugged a hair, quickly slicing it away as he ducked a wild swing. The dwarf gave a loud, crusty shout and Harry spouted an impish grin, sliding into the shadows once more. Or, at least he would have if not for the hands that caught him.

"That was hardly nice Harry," said a voice. Harry could have sworn he heard amusement in it but when turned about face, saw only an annoyed scowl over Strider—Aragorn's expression. The young wizard matched it with one of his own. "Gimli may not have wished his hair cut in so spectacular a fashion."

"He looks better with it short," Harry scoffed pointedly, only to squirm under the dwarf's black glare. "Fine. I'm sorry I cut your hair, but I need it!" Aragorn was glaring now, not that he ever seemed to not glare, really; and Gimli looked to not believe a word he said.

"And what, pray tell, would you need with my hair?" asked Gimli.

"For my wand of course," he answered without pause. It really was the truth though, his wands would all burn up without a core, just useless twigs that randomly caught fire. Ollivandar had made mention of them once, about two years ago. So, without any other ideas, he'd taken to _helping_ remove stray hairs from the guest and noble people's backs. And once even, he managed to pull one from Elrond.

Luckily the elf had yet to notice... He hoped.

"You are here as a guest in Lord Elrond's home..." He only listened with a half ear as Aragorn lectured, thinking about all the different wands he could make with the fine red strands. Holly worked best, of course, but was hardly ever available. It had taken him a week to even find one, but the small tree could hardly support all the wands he needed made to discover the right combination. He'd saved his last stick of it for when he found the right hair. Pine worked alright, of course, though it tended to make burping noises and break apart after a few tries; willow was more easily channeled, though it tended to prefer water, and Mahogany more supportable to the flames.

"Is that agreeable Harry?" asked the ranger. Harry blinked in surprise, having not heard the last part. Or rather most parts in particular.

"Er... Sure?"

"Wonderful," smirked Aragorn, obviously well aware Harry hadn't heard a word said. "I'll expect you to arrive at the practice fields at sunrise. You can help clean the elven armor—without any of the magic."

Harry frowned, but kept tight hold on the hairs.

He would make the fire! He would!

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The young wizard gave an involuntary groan at all the arrows and swords, armors and boots, mud and grime beneath the dull gray rays of the nearly risen sun. How could anyone truly clean all of these? It was worse than the huge amount of chores the Dursleys gave him back home!

The place looked as though it hadn't had a good scrub in years, what with dust dredging up the corners, mud and grass and something that may have been molded blood stirring the surface. He sneezed when he entered.

This would suck.

Rolling back the sleeves of the strange tunic like outfit with a resigned air, Harry got to work, dragging out all the armor and swords and arrows and bows. He took down the maps of what he supposed was the world he now accompanied. The words were unreadable and it looked long out of date, like much of the things he saw, but it fascinated him all the same.

By the time he had unloaded the room, the sun had already fully risen, it's heat leaving a red imprint on the back of his neck. He wondered vaguely if the people of this world attained skin cancer.

"What are you doing young wizard?"

With a frightened yelp, Harry turned at once, holding out the first thing in his grip—a dusty arrow with the feathered end pointing towards a pair of people that could have been one. Elven twins. _Laughing_ elven twins.

"What do you want?" he asked angrily, and yet, somewhat happy. He had lacked company almost the entire time he'd been in Rivendell; the hobbits needed training and rest, the elves passed him with contempt, the dwarves busied themselves with their selves, Aragorn could hardly be spared a moment, especially for someone so insignificant and vexing as him, and Harry could hardly part with any moments as he tried to find hairs and wood to make his wand.

"Little, perhaps, beyond a want to satisfy a curiosity," replied the elf to the left. He wore muddied boots and dark shades of trousers and tunics. He kept a face of neutrality guarded only by a sensitive smile and shifting eyes filled with wisdom and an aged sadness. Long black hair drifted around his angelic face that shone with a radiance of velvet and ebony black beyond even the darkest nights. "I am Elrohir, and my brother Elladan."

"Harry," introduced the young wizard as he dropped the dusty arrow and wiped his dirty hands on the trousers, or what he hoped were trousers, they could be those strange undergarments that the elves were known to wear on occasion. He, of course, much preferred robes.

"Brother," confided the elf on the right, Elladan, with a disdainful look towards Harry, "father expects us, I expect we should not keep him waiting." He then turned and walked off, parting with a slight nod. Elrohir followed his wake with dark eyes.

"Yes, Elladan is correct. Good day, young wizard, I suspect we shall meet again." Elrohir bowed swiftly, a fluid motion tempered with a superfluous grace and style. He gave a slight wink and walked away as well, the same direction his brother had just tread.

Harry watched on with something akin to amusement and curiosity. Why had Elladan left so quickly? Surely their was a reason beyond what was being said? Harry could feel the unspoken truth behind the words. Could their be an actual rationality for the elves scornful looks beyond just that of divergence?

He had never seen them look at the hobbits like that, though they did tend to cast dark looks at Boromir. But Aragorn seemed immune to such treatment. Aragorn seemed almost one of them, though not quite. Almost, like an off shade of white and gray.

Sighing, Harry ate a small package of food he'd brought with him before returning once more to his work.

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The scent of pine and small shreds of wooden shavings clung against the elven fabric despite the many attempts to remove and banish them. The coat of sticky tree sap is easily removed with the acidic soap or a long, sharp flicking motion of a (oak and elven-haired) wand. The smell, however, not so easily.

Harry pressed the almost needle, transfigured from a match-stick _donated_ from the cook, into the middle of the wand, digging out the center carefully and with as much precision as possible. The last two tries had terminated terribly with the red dwarf hair poking out the end in a useless fashion. The effect tended to light the entire wand on fire, which Harry had discovered was not good...

"Harry?"

The needle went astray and Harry cried out in pain, as blood began to leak from his palm.

"Sweet Merlin and everything magical!" he quoted in anguish, remembering the phrase Ron had used so many times. The red liquid had already pooled about his hand, dripping onto his trousers and the knife and the wood. He looked over to see a slightly green Pippin, standing in the doorway.

Getting up Harry found his old, overgrown shirt from his home world and ripped it apart. He used the shreds to cover the wound and turned towards the hobbit with an inquisitive glare. He could hardly be so mad when he hadn't had a visitor in days. Of course, he hadn't left his room in a couple days either, except to eat, drink, and relieve himself.

"Yes Pippin?"

"Oh... Um, well..."

"Oh do hurry up," called another voice. Harry noticed then, that there wasn't one figure there, but actually two."Yes, you've been standing there like a fool for ages, Pip! I thought you were hungry." Or maybe three?

"How many of you are there?" Harry asked, coming around and fully opening the door to see four individuals lined up outside his door. Merry and Sam both stood a little outside his door while Frodo was in the back, his somewhat shy smile friendly and confused.

"What happened to your hand, Harry?" inquired Sam at once upon seeing the crudely wrapped appendage. "Are you hurt or ill?"

"No, no of course not!" replied the young wizard with a sharp smile as he glanced at the bandage. It would have to do for the moment. He would fix it later, when no one was watching, no reason to worry his friends. "So why are you all here?"

"Why would we not?" said Merry, who seemed oblivious to the odd looks, which Harry was quite thankful for. "You've been in this room for an eternity! Come outside and join us, we're to play a bit of a hobbit game."

"Most likely you've yet to hear of it with your bigness and all such," added Sam with a wide smile. "We hobbits like simple games though, not like that quill-nitch of yours. Utterly confusing and strange, not at all hobbit like."

"And you think your games aren't confusing and strange?" Harry asked, joining in the friendly banter easily as he had when they journeyed through the harsh wilderness to Rivendell. Sam tended to argue in simple terms, dividing people into groups and rarely moving them, lest they proved themselves worthy of such a change. The stereotypes usually ended with Harry in the strange category that all wizards fell under, not that Sam had actually met many wizards. "I specifically remember some strange family game where you count the number of times your related to one person! I still think your all crazy, intermarrying between families like that. People who do that in my world end up with eleven toes and three ears."

Of course, he'd learned some ended like that anyways, with a wave of the wand; or belching slugs.

"Not nearly so queer as riding broomsticks. Made for sweeping, not riding, I say."

"And so we've heard, a good many times," cut in Pippin with a cheeky grin. "Why not a game of old fashioned Brandybuck's fox and duck?"

"Why not?" replied Frodo, grinning widely. Harry got the impression something secret was going on. "Not fox!"

"Not fox!" echoed the other hobbits as they scurried away. Harry shouted and grinned as he chased after them for the rules they so often tended to neglect. Ridiculous hobbits.

Harry chased each of them all, discovering the game actually resembled tag, only when the person was caught, he had to do some ridiculous notion that the "fox" deemed to escape. So Harry chose outrageous choices for them all, making Sam act like an overzealous lion and Pippin was forced to waddle and roll at the same time, an interesting feat in itself that allowed Harry to capture Frodo, who was the most wily of them all. Frodo was made to flop about like a worm and Merry made to join him, while making throaty noises with a resemblance to whale and a goat.

They all then turned and attacked Harry, tickling him mercilessly.

"For the Shire!" they each screamed launching themselves in a chaotic order all at once. He managed to fend back Merry at first, but Sam used his small size to pass between his knees and knock him over. After that, all was futile.

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"Incendio." Carelessly flicking the wand (Oak, hobbit-haired) towards bowl of mead before him, Harry watched it begin to burn. Just another testimony to the number of endless hours he'd spent practicing that specific spell. His wand curled with smoke and Harry carefully extinguished the fire, with a bit of a wave as he pulled back against the flames.

He'd learned it when he'd accidentally missed his target, catching a passing elf's garments alight.

Perhaps that was why the elves all tended to avoid him, or glare whenever he entered the same room. But then again, Elrohir didn't, so maybe not. Perhaps he'd ask when next he saw the elf?

He sighed, he needed the perfect combination. But how? The elven wands were more prone to subtle spells, they lacked the spontaneous effect of fire. The dwarf hairs did better, but it was much too stubborn, refusing to create fires unless it was to create a large, backwash of dragon-breath, as Sam had so adequately named it.

He need something else, something closer to a phoenix. Harry wondered if Gandalf would possibly give up a few hairs. The wizard had so much, it could hardly be bothered to lose a few, could he? But even that, Harry doubted would work to much. The wizard was powerful, far more powerful than Harry, surely? Everyone revered him as such!

He stood silently, a headache forming as he did. He looked towards his hand, still bandaged and red. He had cut it open a few more times, and despite his washing and dressing of the wound, it seemed to refuse to get better. Normally, he would have simply found Hermione and asked for the spell, as Hermione knew almost everything (_almost_ simply because she had made that _one_ mistake with the cat hair!), but without his know-it-all friend, he didn't have too many options.

He could, of course, find Lord Elrond, who had already shown himself not so happy with Harry after their initial meeting, or seek out Aragorn, who could heal almost anything with the exception of the Nazgul.

But Aragorn had been unhappy with him since Gandalf's inability to send him home. Nothing seemed to appease the ranger, that is, besides the she-elf Arwen, Lord Elrond's daughter.

Sighing, Harry decided on nothing. Preoccupied by the sudden need for food.

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The young wizard ignored the cautious glare of the librarian as he entered the library of Elrond. The elf, a great figure in the eyes of most, stared, hawk-like eyes shrewd and calculating. A quill squawked in the silence, black ink twining in it's jar. The others turned away as he passed, backing away from him—away from one so untouchable.

Away from the wizard.

Harry stretched his legs, the sweet silence ringing in his ears. Green eyes, the color of a watermelon's empty carcass, washed against the world, soaking in the different colors and books and words and sounds. The building felt void. Containing and obsolete.

He turned a corner and found what he'd been looking for, the smallest of books, the one with pictures and scrolls.

He opened it once more and watched the birds swoop and the trees grow anew; watched the frosted flowers bloom and the soft-swept clouds blunder across blue-painted skies. He watched until he could watch no more and the librarian forced him away.

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"Incendio..."

"At it again young wizard?" Harry didn't bother to turn, recognizing the voice instantly. Elrohir and Elladan. Twin sons of Elrond.

"Don't you two have something to do?"

"But of course," replied one neutrally. "However, we have come to acquire you skills with a sword. Our lord father believes your presence is endangering the ale and mead. The cook has complained thrice of your fires."

He glanced at them from the corner of his eye, watching the scowling countenance of Elladan and Elrohir's shifting smile.

"I'm busy," he replied in kind, turning back to the bowl of mead, he flicked his wand sharply, feeling, as he watched, the fire roar up. He'd easily discovered that a spell, practiced enough, could be done silently. It certainly explained some of his teacher's feats.

Elrohir chuckled dryly and Elladan grunted before the sound of fabric moving caught his attention. He turned at once, only not in time. The fire was quickly dispersed and two, rough and calloused hands took hold of his arms. He had only begun to struggle when he heard Elladan's leathery voice in his ear.

"You are ridiculously light, young wizard."

Harry scowled and stopped jerking. Stupid Elves.

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The bow strained against his arms, sapping his strength as he simply held it aloft. How could anyone do this? What kind of puffed up monsters used this sort of weapon?

"Concentrate," barked the elf, Elladan. "If you can't wield a sword, at least hold the bow aloft."

Harry flinched slightly. He had fared horribly against the elf, loosing his sword in the very beginning. The passing creatures had all laughed with delight and stared, reminding him of the children of Hogwarts. Reminding him of the mean-spirited people that awaited him should he return.

"Elladan," chided a voice, a new one. He looked blithely to the side to see a new elf, a she-elf. Arwen, Aragorn's admirer. "There is little need for such harsh words. He is but a boy."

"He is a wizard," answered the elf in reply, as though that solved everything. "He must defend himself with something other than the flame. Even Mithandril uses a sword. He must have a real weapon."

"Brother!" she announced in a most vicious manner. Most unladylike. "Have you spoken with Estel of this? He is twelve years of age. I do not remember you able to wield you bow or hold a sword well then either."

"He is a wizard." The words seemed a little less confident this time. Harry wondered why.

"He is," acknowledged Arwen. "But he is a boy as well."

Elladan made no reply, but he did stop yelling—somewhat.

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"_What makes a wizard?" asked Hermione, her bushy hair billowing. Lights blared around her and elves raised an applause. He was on a game show, but he didn't remember the answer._

"_Magic?" he tried to answer, but she refused to listen. "Fire?"_

"_Where is your hand, Harry?" asked Ron, who was entangled in Hermione's hair. "Where's your wand?"_

"_It fell off," he replied back, waving the appendage. Even as he did, the other hand fell off, and a turban was winding around his feet, burning him. He tried to scream as sands swept up and fire raced around him. No..._

_No..._

Harry jerked awake suddenly, his body entrenched in sweat. The black hair matted itself in ruffled heaps, pale lips dry and scabbed. He licked them cautiously, green eyes staring upwards still hazy and fearful.

Grabbing his glasses, Harry looked down, as though to assure himself that his body was indeed, still whole—that it all had been but a dream. He noticed at once, the darkness bluring against gray cloth, and unwound the fabric from his hand for further inspection.

The small lances that had earlier been simply cuts now seemed puffy and red, obviously infected.

He cursed and got dressed ignoring that it was obviously still dark. Maybe if he left now, he could work up the courage to see one of the healers.

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Harry leaned against the door, unable to enter, and to worried to leave, debating as he had for the walk up and down the great flights of stairs whether he should or should not. Dare he to find Lord Elrond, who had already shown himself not so happy with Harry after their initial meeting, or find Aragorn, who could heal almost anything with the exception of the Nazgul wound.

Aragorn it was; albeit, reluctantly.

"He is a menace," claimed the Ranger's voice. He sounded angry, hearkening with an enthusiasm that diverted Harry's attention towards it. Who was a menace? Was something wrong, at this time of the night—or rather morning? "His fire hath consumed-"

"He has as of yet, done nothing," replied another. It sounded like an elf, eloquent and soft spoken, but Harry couldn't be certain. And besides, if it were, indeed an elf, would they not be speaking in Elvish? "So long as he refuses our attention, we shall refuse his."

Harry frowned. Fire? Attention? Could they be talking about him? Could this be why all the elves were ignoring him? But what did Aragorn have to do with it? Did he really think Harry a menace?

"The wizard is plotting, I tell you!" exclaimed Aragorn, and Harry could feel his throat constrict. The sounds of murmurs poured through the wooden door. A wizard! So Aragorn really though him plotting? A menace? Nothing but something to be squashed, like some pathetic bug, by the sound of it. "Have you listened of nothing we've told you? Gandalf is correct-"

Even Gandalf was in on this?

"Mithandril is old," replied the stranger, Harry heard approval. He felt hope and hugged his forgotten hand to his chest. "However, he has yet to be truly wrong. We shall confer amongst the others. Lord Elrond shall hear our decision, and through him you, Estel."

He heard the dismissal and backed away, his hand forgotten in his panic. They were going to kick him out? Was that why everyone was avoiding him? Where would he go, back to Old Butterbur in Bree? To the memories of Bob and the bloody grave? Would he find a new home with elves and humans and hobbits and dwarves? Would he ever return to his old one? Ginny, Hermione, Ron? The names came with the normal pang, but not so painful as they once were. Like an almost irrecoverable haze. Could he truly forget them, his old friends? Hagrid still stuck in Azkaban for a crime he never committed, Dumbledore sacked from office through Malfoy's machinations.

He turned to move away, when the door slid open. A tall figure stepped out, grabbing hold of his shoulder on instinct. Aragorn looked down, eyes hooded by the shadows. Hate and loathing undoubtedly filling them. How could he! Why?

Harry glanced upwards, feeling the fear and anger and pain draw into one. A tear leaked against his eye and he bolted from the place, shrugging off the shocked hand as he raced away. Aragorn had betrayed him. Gandalf had lied. Aragorn didn't care. None of them did.

They had lied.

The all of them, liars.

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He was in a cupboard like room, hiding as the footsteps rushed by and the shouts echoed. Dust filled the cramped corners and darkness laid like a heavy blanket, draining the energy even as it revitalized him. Harry was uncomfortable, cold, and irritable. He wanted to go home. He wanted his friends. He wanted away.

Why couldn't he just be normal?

"Harry!" He said nothing, silently sobbing as the emotions bit at his heart, stopping his throat like one of those fat corks pressed into the potion vials. An icy impression creaked from his stomach, ascending like the tiny spider on his ankle; stopping the coughs and cries with a mute disinterest. Harry held tightly to himself as he leaned against bags of flour and wheat. "Harry!"

The cupboard door creaked open, and Harry caught a glimpse of gray, broken and reflected before a shout of acclaim took his ears by surprise.

"Harry!" deduced the voice, but it became quieter after a moment. Softer and more sincere. "What are you doing in here? Are you hurt? Ill? Why did you not answer when I called?"

"Go away..." whispered Harry, hating the slight quiver and the decisive weakness in it. Why wouldn't they just leave him alone? That was what they wanted, to get rid of him! Let him rot in their cupboard... Wasn't that what the Dursley's did? Just hide him away? Why should these people care any different? Oh, but the room was full of food, and probably warranted more respect than his decaying corpse. He was nothing but a fire-making wizard! No, worse. A menace. "Just leave me alone..."

The elf, Elrohir from the musical tone, made a strange face through the darkness, probably one of accomplishment. They'd found him. He let loose another sob, this time louder, resigned to his fate. He didn't want to fight anymore. He wanted to go back to the way things used to be. To Hogwarts, with his friends and their happy, smiling faces, before Riddle and the diary. Before this wild adventure. Before his supposed _friend's_ mutiny.

"What is wrong young wizard?" Harry winced at the name. "And you have not yet answered my questions. Why are you crying in the dark?"

"I am not crying," he managed to say, before fear and weariness drained him of his courage. "And what do you care? Just go... leave me alone!"

"Young-" the elf obviously saw the wince this time and changed his words, "Harry. Won't you come out of here? A fire roars in the hearth, and the cook always keeps something delicious for the night. Best yet, we have a most comfortable couch that you would like well, red furnished and fluffed, that sinks when you sit. So come, won't you? It is hardly the weather to remain in!"

Harry had the distinct feeling the elf had done this before. His numb arms and legs craved to find the heavenly haven described. But what if it was a trap? What if they wanted to lure him in, unsuspecting, and dispose of him quick like? Maybe a sword through his gut, or decapitation. He doubted they hung people or burned (at least Harry who could put it out) or drowned.

"Go away!" he groaned, remembering the taste of the last Elvish meal. He had missed lunch and could hear his stomach growl. Why wouldn't they just leave him alone? Hadn't they lied enough? Hadn't they deceived him enough?

"Harry..."

"No!" he shouted, his eyes blurring with tears as a memories burned withing his mind. Fresh and old. "_Enough!" Aragorn's face as he glared. Gandalf as he pondered the predicament. The words behind the door. The hobbits, laughing gaily as they chased each other with screams and shouts. _His fingers had lost their feeling and his sore hand was no longer sore. No longer even a hand, just a numb appendage that shifted in the blackness occasionally. "No just stop! Why won't you all just stop?"

"Stop what?"

The innocent tone, the curious uncertainty, the worry. He could hardly stand it, he could hardly breathe. This was worse than any snake; than any possessed teacher; than any troll; than any cupboard.

"No... Stop! Stop lying and staring and... and..."

And arms were wrapping around him, pulling him from the corner, from the uncomfortable position. He tried to fight, tried in a futile effort to protect himself from the crushing limbs. But they grabbed him with an inhumane strength, held him, pulled him close as fingers rummaged through his hair.

"I can't understand if you won't tell me," whispered Elrohir. Harry only buried his face in the soft elven tunic. The embrace was warm and full, holding him afloat as the world seemed to swim around him. "Why did you run from Estel?"

Harry mumbled something unintelligible.

"Harry," asked the elf, his voice stronger and serious, "why did you run from Estel and not answer when we called?"

"Because he's going to kill me." It came out before he could stop it, and he cursed his naivety. He should have played along, should have pretended and then made a run for it!

"What are you talking about, Harry?" asked the elf suddenly intensely, his hands tightening as though to crush the horrible knowledge from him. "Who has threatened to kill you?"

"Aragorn and Gandalf, and the other elves..."

"Preposterous!"

"I heard them!" And then his anger dissipated as the realization set in once more. The betrayal and the pain. They had lied. He buried his face in the shocked elf's tunic once more, sobbing. After a few moments, Elrohir seemed to come to his senses.

"You were eavesdropping on us?" whispered the elf, pulling away to look into Harry's eyes, though Harry could hardly see to find them, his glasses fogged by the heat.

"No... I- I was going to ask- only I heard- and then- and then he-" his words were becoming jumbled as he continued to attempt to talk. His mind kept jumping and going blank as the eyes continued to stare. They pierced the darkness, though he could hardly see them.

"And you thought they were talking about you." Elrohir said it calmly, almost a question, though the elf knew the answer. He knew it all now, and any moment would call Aragorn, drag him hither to murder Harry on spot, or maybe drag him to the dungeons. Did elves have dungeons? Who did they keep there, other elves? Orcs? "Oh, young wizard, you truly are a child. It is a misunderstanding."

"Misunderstanding?" parroted Harry, baffled and sniffing.

"Yes," agreed the elf, before a wide grin broke out and he swung open the cupboard door, dragging Harry out with him.

"Where are we going?"

"To find Estel."

Harry's throat caught in his breath and he would have fallen to a stop if not for Elrohir's firm grip. In that same manner, he dragged him down the halls.

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"But- But-"

Elrohir looked down at Harry, gray eyes sharp as they entered Aragorn's room without knocking. It stood empty of life, filled with sharp swords and tools and strange devices. Heavy tomes and scrolls lined the walls, a well made bed pushed in a corner and a desk near by. A pair of boots and a few shirts scattered against the floor.

"You do not wish to see Estel?" He shook his head wildly, still not completely sure he was wrong. He knew what he heard! They wanted to kill him, the fire-wizard! The menace! The one the elves ignored!

Elrohir obviously understood that and made Harry sit on the bed, though it felt strange and awkward to do so. To sit on Aragorn's bed... On the bed of perhaps his killer?

"Est- Aragorn would never hurt you," answered the elf bluntly, not at all his usual style. "I know not how you could have—it matters not. Aragorn sat by your side for days while you slept off the burns of the fire-"

"How do you know that?" Harry blurted out rudely, before blushing and ducking his head. He felt stupid and anxious.

"Because it was Elladan and I who found you," replied Elrohir quietly. "It was we who brought you back from the burning ravine only barely alive." The elf's eyes lowered, drawing darker. "It was I who informed Estel, and I who had to force him to sleep and to eat and to move."

Harry stared. But... but... And his eyes narrowed, suddenly suspicious.

"Your lying. All of you! I thought... I thought-" he broke off, overcome with nausea. He'd been led right into the room full of swords. Led to the slaughter like a blind fool. Bitterly, he spat, "I thought you a friend."

The tears didn't come this time, but the pain gripped him all the same. Twice the idiot. How could he be such a fool? And without a wand or sword to protect himself with. The elf would beat him thrice by the time he got to a weapon.

"What?" asked Elrohir suddenly bewildered. "Harry! I'm not lying!"

"Yes you are," Harry replied, utterly convinced. "Aragorn hates me! He's hated me from the beginning!" Scenes came back to him then, stealing through his mind and overcoming him._"What is this?" whispered a low voice in his ear, the smell of pine and sweat invading his nose. "Surely, not a little boy alone in the woods?" _The frigid night, lying in wet clothes far away from the fire so cold and hungry. _"You're lying," Strider murmured, his thumb wiping away something from Harry's head. _How could anyone care for you, pathetic little boy? "He would never do that! Never!"

"Harry-"

"No! No more lies!" he shrieked. A nearby window cracked through the middle. Harry ignored it, breathing harshly as he tried not to envision the horrors to come. "No more... No..."

"Hush child," scolded the elf, when Harry could scream no more. His throat constricting, draining him of strength. "Estel would-"

"I would what?" asked a hard voice on the other side of the door, the sound muted and swallowed by the slight creak of wood. Aragorn sounded odd, almost anxious. Angry and pained. "Did you find him, Elrohir?"

"I did."

Liars. It _had_ been a trap. And he had been a fool.


	5. Chapter 5

Delusional

Raven'd Fleet

Chapter Five

"Did you find him Elrohir?"

"I did." answered the elf, sealing his fate. The tall ranger stomped in, his black hair wild and untamed, his eyes just as unruly. The hellish blue swiveled before landing on Harry, calculating and precise.

"Thank the valar! Harry—What's wrong with you Harry?" asked Aragorn as he approached near, only to stop abruptly. Harry flinched and pulled back, tears swimming in his eyes while he tried to get away, to leave, to run. Only Elrohir held him firmly. "Harry..."

"No!" He shouted, only to lower his voice at the rough and broken texture, like sandpaper against marble, it burned his throat. "No more lies... No more..."

"He's hysterical," replied Elrohir while Harry tried to think straight. The young wizard glared at the traitorous elf, how dare he betray him in so many manners? How could he! "I found him in the kitchen cupboard, he'd been hiding amongst the flour and refused to answer any of our calls."

The blue eyes widened perceptibly, obviously realizing just how many times he'd run down that very hall. Harry knew though, he'd heard and counted every treacherous footstep—all thirty seven thundering times.

"Harry, what's wrong..." whispered the ranger, his voice taking a cruelly kind temperament. Harry refused to be swayed. He knew. He had heard! "Harry, please..."

He glared at Aragorn, unable to take the deception. Unable to breathe and to think and to function. His instincts screamed to run. Hadn't he heard them? Hadn't they said they would kill the fire-wizard that the elves so often ignored? The menace...

"Harry-"

"Stop!" He cried at last, cradling his arm carefully. "I already know, I heard you! I heard what you said. Why won't you just kill me and get it over?" The tears began to fall as the words crashed around him. The blurry world shook in a dizzying array as he swayed.

"What..." Aragorn started.

Harry ignored the man, already well aware that the end had come. Voldemort would be disappointed, and Riddle as well, he though as Aragorn approached. And the Dursleys too, of course; who would weed the garden and paint the fence and cook the breakfast now? But then again, Harry doubted they'd care too much. Certainly none of his friends would, they were all dead anyways, and if not now, then they would be soon.

The Ranger was upon him now, Harry could even smell him. He could smell death approaching, the slight scent of pine and sweat and that musk that belonged only to Aragorn. He shut his eyes and waited. Would they behead him? Hang him? Drown him?

The warm, calloused hands stretched around his neck. Strangling then? It seemed a horrible way to die. He tightened his fist and waited—resigned.

And waited, with trembling tremors.

And felt a warm body wash over him.

In confusion, he opened his eyes to find, instead of death, Aragorn leaning over him; dragging him into an embrace that curled his toes. His breath left him in a sudden rush.

"I was worried," whispered the man in his ear. The words calmed him slightly, soothed his aching head and cooled the inferno within. "When you refused to answer... We thought... _I_ thought..." They separated, the coarse fingers holding his pale and clammy face. Starry blue eyes swimming in his own emerald green

He almost succumbed, then, to the supposed truth of the words. He almost believed the Ranger. But then images raced back to him. The knife pressed against his throat. The glaring, distrustful eyes. The fingers around his neck that swept him into darkness. The scolding anger. The disregard. The dismissal.

He remembered. He pulled away with new-found vigor.

"You liar!" he shouted, drawing against the bed. Using the uninjured hand, Harry reach out, groping for a weapon. His hand settled on some long and sharp object. He pulled it towards him, ignoring the pain, Elrohir's gasp, and Aragorn's muffled cry.

Looking down, he beheld a dagger covered in his own blood. He faced it towards the stupefied Ranger.

"Harry- What- What are you-"

"Don't come any closer!" the young wizard shouted, clenching the hilt of the dagger tightly despite the pain. The cold surface slipped slightly beneath his warm blood. He tried to back up more, but the bed prevented it. "I heard you. I heard what you said!"

"Harry we-"

"No!" Harry shouted again. Tears began to leak from his eyes. "I trusted you! I trusted you all—liars..." A sob broke through his angry facade, but he never lowered the weapon. Aragorn made no move to approach.

"You don't understand Harry..."

"What's there to understand?" he replied bitterly, remembering his only living family. Aunt Petunia smiled politely in his mind's eye, the action false and unrealistic. He recalled Uncle Vernon, his puce face scrunched in vehemence. He thought of his cousin Dudley, laughing wildly while pushing him cruelly to the ground. "You made your opinion most clear."

"But-"

"The wizard using _fire_," Harry spat. "The menace that all the elves ignore."

"I have not ignored you," whispered Elrohir, almost soothingly. The sound was serpentine and dolorous. "And neither does Elladan or _ada—_Lord Elrond. Little wizard, no one shall harm you here!"

Aragorn took this time to finally speak in length. "Please, Harry, listen to Elrohir. Listen, please. I was discussing Sarumon the White with Lord Elrond's advisors. The elves refuse to take part in the war, claiming it a war of men!"

Harry swallowed heavily. Could it be true? Had they indeed—No! No, he'd heard them! It couldn't have been a mistake! He'd heard them. Aragorn hated him! A trick! It had to be a trick...

"Harry, you have to believe-" started the elf. Harry ignored him.

"No! You hate me!A trick, you just want to lure me... Your just like Riddle... Just like Tom... No! I won't be tricked again!" Ginny came to mind at once, her red hair spread about her face. He tried to ignore it, the cold sickly face, the clammy hands. He tried to forget the huge serpent that had towered above him, blind and deadly. He tried...

He failed...

He always failed...

"Harry, please, I... I don't hate you—Harry..." Aragorn stopped, took a breath and stepped forward, ignoring the shaking dagger pressed in his direction. Harry made a sound, a groan as he tried to steady his hands, tried to remain upright. "Harry, I do not know of this Riddle, or this Tom, but I have never hated you. _Never_!"

"But the river- the dagger-" whispered the young wizard, his breathing laborious.

"You were a half-starved wild-child following us in the woods. I was hardly to trust you, especially not with _The_ _Ring_ of power in our grasps. But we took you in, don't you remember? We brought you with us, despite my better judgment, on Frodo's recommendation."

"Frodo never-" Aragorn broke him off with a crude and sharp laugh. The sound broke against him like a frozen gust of wind. Elrohir easily slipped from the room unseen.

"You would know not, little wizard, of our talks while you slept. Did you not wonder why you dreamed so little during our travels? Your soup was laced with herbs that left you unconscious for many hours. Frodo had recognized you from the Prancing Pony as one of the few that spoke in his defense. I must admit, I had not connected the gaunt rebellious child in our company with the heartening servant that Butterbur so loved."

Harry swallowed the guilt and lowered the Ranger's weapon. Had Butterbur truly loved him? And all he'd left was a pitiful note and a small amount of coins. But no! He couldn't let the words get to him! It didn't make sense, none of it made any sense!

"If you didn't trust me, why'd you give me my sword?"

"I had not wanted too," replied the gruff man, his blue eyes dark and shadowed as he took another step forward; only two paces from the young wizard. "But with the arrival of the Nazgul, I had little choice. You have yet to be truly honest with me, little wizard. You have kept secrets since we began refusing to share them unless absolutely necessary-"

"You had secrets too!" interrupted Harry. "You didn't tell me about the ring, or where we were going, you only just commanded me to do everything. No one ever tells me anything..." They hadn't even told him about their meeting, the one where they even talked about him! Him, Harry!

"Of course not," scoffed the ranger, lessening the width between them, Harry could almost feel his breath. Could taste the irritation and the worry. The large, worn hand took hold of the dagger's blade gently; carefully. It did not slice through his tough skin as it had Harry's. "You are a child. A wizard, yes, but a child still. It is not your place to worry over the affairs of adults—especially not matters so foul as the Dark Lord's ring."

"But I can help!"

"But you won't," answered Aragorn stiffly, jerking the dagger from Harry's limp fingers. "I have told you this before."

"But why-"

"Enough!" shouted the tall man, his eyes flashing with rage. A dark shadow crept across his face before it faded. "The fellowship is a serious journey that requires a maturity you obviously have not achieved. You may stay with the elves. However, we are far from our original discussion. Why were you standing outside my door to begin with?"

Harry ducked his head to hide the red flush.

"Harry?" He did not answer and simply pushed out his hand, showing the swollen red tissue and slightly frothing wounds. Aragorn gasped, obviously stunned. "What happened?"

"I... I cut myself with a knife," he murmured, slightly ashamed of the disgusting appearance. It made him gag to just stare at the putrid looking appendage—reminding him of Bob the hobbit.

"Indeed," agreed the Ranger, obviously sickened by the disgusting extremity. "It has been infected and is likely beyond my help. Why have you not seen to this earlier? It looks to have been open for weeks."

"I... I thought it'd just go away, like all the others-"

"Others?" echoed Aragorn, eyes narrowing. "You have been hurt like this before?"

"Well, not this bad, no, but I'm not some kind of sissy that can't do anything! I don't need mollycoddling!"

Aragorn rolled his eyes and grabbed him by the sleeve, dragging him to his feet and begun towards the door. The movement caught Harry unaware and he could do little more than sputter as the Ranger hauled him from the room.

"Wha- Where are we going?"

"To see Lord Elrond and then to send you to bed," replied the man without hesitation. "We will discuss your punishment for your behavior after your hand is seen to. Are there any other wounds that you are waiting to 'just go away'?"

"No- But-!" Harry squawked indignantly before Aragorn cut him off.

"Enough. Be silent and walk, we shall be there shortly."

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Harry Potter laid sullenly in bed, his arm, throbbing and wrapped tightly, roughly tucked beside him. Lord Elrond had not well been pleased at Harry's wounds or his emotional collapse. The great elf had poured what seemed an infinity of potions down his throat, almost drowning him in the noxious taste and horrible aroma. The elf had said the taste was to prevent him from attempting the action again.

Hermione would never have been so unkind.

But of course, Hermione was probably dead. As was Ron and Ginny and the annoying little Colin and so many others. All dead like Bob the hobbit. All because of him...

Harry shut his eyes, ignoring the dull ache. It had been months since that day and, while his heart still ached and his mind still burned with horrific scenes from the chamber and his frozen friends... The pain had lessened to a bearable burden. He found the things he'd held so tightly to had all but faded.

He could barely recall his aunt's shrill voice or the conversations he'd had with Ron over Quidditch just a few days before his departure. Even Malfoy, with all of his pale aristocracy and biased views was fading, like a long worn picture crinkles at the edges and bends in the middle.

Sighing, he released his breath and let sleep wash over him.

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Harry awoke to a gathering of hobbits in his room. Merry and Pippin had both taken the foremost area and Frodo in between them and Sam, who waited near the back. Harry gave them a stiff smile as his arm rose into agony once more. However, he had had worse. Like that time, that seemed years ago, when Lockhart had erased all the bones in his arm.

He wondered if Lockhart had managed to escape alive.

"Er- Hi guys?" Harry said, tilting his head to the side as he looked oddly at the little people filling the room. "Can I-er help you?"

Merry and Pippin both shared a look and Harry narrowed his eyes. Was something going—no! No he wouldn't think like that. He had already gotten in enough trouble for doubting these people once. He wouldn't do it again... he wouldn't be paranoid!

"We heard about your arm-" started Pippin, but Merry elbowed him sharply in reprimand. As though to talk about that might somehow wound Harry. Their pity annoyed him, but he tried to ignore it. They didn't mean anything by it.

"We heard about your accident, he means," explains Frodo kindly. Harry doesn't care for their ruthless compassion a bit. "Lord Elrond and Gandalf say you won't be well enough to see us off."

Harry froze. Surely it wasn't so bad?

He remembered the puss and swelling and winced slightly. Perhaps he'd been a bit foolish to think it would just go away. Hermione would have chided him, and Madam Promfrey, the school nurse, would have made him spend the night in the infirmary.

"Oh... When do you leave?"

"Tomorrow."

Harry felt his shock stop his breath. Tomorrow! But surely that was to soon? Could it be December already? Hadn't it only been November just a few days ago? And for it to be the end! But why hadn't anyone told him? Why hadn't Aragorn—

"_We will discuss your punishment for your behavior after your hand is seen to..."_

Perhaps this was his punishment? Aragorn had never come back to see him. Whenever he awoke, no one was ever there. No one to talk to. No one to soothe him. No one to ease the pain in his arms.

No one to care.

"Oh... I didn't know," the young wizard mentioned weakly. "You'll ride at dawn then?"

"Yes," nodded Merry, obviously uncomfortable. "We had wanted to say goodbye before we left though. And, that should we not succeed..." he trailed off and Harry knew the thought was haunting all the pale little faces. He wished he could do something for them. Anything.

But he could do little.

Weak, like always.

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Aragorn came at last, when the sun had begun to set, casting long shadows on the window panes and striking Harry's eyes. He, of course, could do nothing about it, unable to move except when helped to the privy, and to proud to call for help unless absolutely necessary.

The Ranger walked in wearing much the same clothes he'd seen him wear in Bree. It warmed him, and cast a cold shadow upon his heart.

"You are awake, little wizard?" inquired Aragorn, kneeling beside his bed. His black-blue eyes looked kinder than they had before, as though the coming journey lifted his spirits. Harry doubted he would ever love such danger as what visited him every year since he began Hogwarts and before it.

"Yes sir," Harry replied. Then, before he could stop himself, blurted the question that had haunted him since the hobbits' visit. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what?" asked the Ranger, obvious confused.

"That you were leaving tomorrow!" The startled man blinked twice before a small smile twitched at his mouth.

"Would you have cared?"

"Of course I would have-"

"You cannot join us though," cut in Aragorn with a rueful frown. "And I did not want you to think on such unpleasantness for I know you wish to help and cannot."

"I could though..." whispered Harry. He heard Aragorn sigh but only lowered his eyes. They had had this conversation enough times Harry didn't even bother trying to defy the Ranger anymore. He never won. It was always, your too young, or too inexperienced.

"You cannot now, though," replied the man in kind. "So let us speak of more pleasant talk."

"Such as what?" asked Harry, rolling his eyes. What could be pleasant when he was being left behind like some pathetic woman in the fairy tales?

"I have been speaking with Arwen," announced the man. His words startling Harry for a moment. Aragorn never told Harry anything about his personal life. Whatever the little wizard learned, he learned from either Bilbo or the whispers of elves. "She and her brothers have agreed to keep watch over you while we are gone. It tis a high honor, indeed."

"I suppose no one else offered?" Harry ventured with an ironic tone. "The elves would care not if I were squished out of existence."

"Perhaps you should not have cut so many of their locks," answered Aragorn in the same tone. "I imagine you are lucky at least, that some have a sense of humor. The elves are vain about their beauty and their hair is no different. What you did was rude."

"But my wand-"

"You should have asked," replied the Ranger. "But since you did not, it is of no consequence now. You shall remember this lesson I hope?"

"Yes sir."

"Good," smiled the man. Harry tried to smile back but the pain from his arm made his mood somewhat sour and unpleasant. "There is one more thing I should much like to speak with you of."

"Yes?"

"Should Frodo and the ring fall into the hands of Sauron," Harry gasped at the idea. Surely not! But Aragorn continued anyways in a grim fashion. "Should this happen, I have asked Lord Elrond to take you with him to the undying lands. It is the land of the Valar and home of the Istari. I ask, that should we fail, that you will hurry with him to cross the great sea. Perhaps as a wizard yourself, you will be allowed safe passage."

"But I do not wish to go there!" Harry retorted, how could he ask such a thing? "I want to stay with you! I don't want to live with the elves, they're old and uptight and most of them hate me!" He didn't want to live with people who hated him. Would the elves lock him in a cupboard too? Would they refuse him food as well?

"Do not say that," commanded Aragorn suddenly with anger and authority. "Should Sauron win and regain the ring of power, all hope is lost. Leave this forsaken land. Leave and ask the Valar to return you to your home."

Harry closed his eyes. He wouldn't go. He wouldn't leave his friends! He couldn't! Not again...

"Forgive me Harry," spoke the man suddenly weary. "It has been a long week and the fellowship leaves at dawn. I should leave you... But... Should we succeed. I-" the man stuttered for a moment here and Harry couldn't help but stare at the man he revered in awe with a little trepidation. "Should we succeed, I would like for you too-"

He cut off when a knock came to the door and Lord Elrond entered.

"My lord," bowed Aragorn, cutting off as he showed respect the elf lord.

"Estel," smiled Elrond. "And Harry," the smile lost much of it's flavor then. "It is time for the young wizard to sleep. Is there anything you'd like to say before you part?" Put that way, Harry could feel a list of things coming to mind. So many questions like where he was born, why he eats the potatoes without butter but uses so much salt? They all tumble through his mind for a moment before it settles on a blank nod.

Looking expectantly at the Ranger, Harry wondered if he would continue his words. But he blushes and ducks his head.

"No, sir. I was just leaving," He turns to Harry then, and Harry only then notices how red the pale face really is. And how dark the blue eyes appear. "Good Night little wizard."

Harry bids the man goodnight before drinking again a foul potion.

Disgusting objects. Perhaps the Elf Lord was attempting to poison him with nasty drinks? He wouldn't put it past the angry elf. With that, he fell swiftly to sleep.

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Harry was not awake to see the fellowship off. They left without warning or goodbye, except the ones from earlier, which to Harry, quickly seemed little enough. So many perils wrought the journey ahead, it could be well expected that they all died in the quest. In fact, it was unlikely for any to return home.

The thought suddenly disturbed him and left him perturbed.

Why hadn't he said more? Why hadn't he hugged Sam as the hobbit had wished? Boromir had wanted to visit, but Harry had been to busy to hear him. To disheartened by the prospect of his only friends farewell. And now he was alone.

Utterly and completely alone.

But when was he not?

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A few days after the fellowship's departure, Harry was allowed to leave his bed. His arm, though, was still unsettlingly sore. Perhaps it was Lord Elrond retribution? However, if he ever wanted to be of any use to anyone, he would need to train and make his wand.

Someone, obviously, must have understood that, for they left three strands of long black hair that waved and curled at the ends. He didn't know who the pieces belonged to, but for some odd reason, they looked familiar.

Of course, the person who left them must have been exceptionally vain. To think their hair might be the one not tried? Probably an elf. Only, no elf truly liked Harry, or so he thought, with the exception of maybe Lady Arwen and the young Lord Elrohir.

But he set out to crafting a wand with a single of the three hairs and oak.

Oddly, after ten fire spells, the wand still did not flare as expected.

The experience was exhilarating. He'd finally found the correct core! At once he set about to making the perfect wand, using holly and two of the mysterious hairs. Rumors filtered the marble and majestic halls of Lord Elrond of the cause for his inexplicit joy.

"Come little wizard," spouted Elrohir from beside his brother Elladan. "You've suffered over that goblet a week since you were released from bed. The Lord of the Kitchens worries you shall set alight all his fine ale and wines. Let us go and spar, I wish to test your wellness!"

"Ah. Then know I am well enough to kill a blind snake and leave me in peace," Harry replied in kind. He almost laughed at the strangeness of the words. Since when did he talk like that? To much time around Bilbo, most likely. The little hobbit had passed the days with him and was never to be found far.

"A blind snake, you say?" inquired Elladan curious as elves are prone to be. Harry recognized his voice as being more gruff than his brother's and did not turn from his work. "Did you blind it as well?"

"No. I only stabbed it in the mouth."

The two elves snorted in amusement.

"And why not simply hack off it's head, as young mortals such as yourself are prone to do?"

"Because, I was busy trying not to be eaten," Harry replied in kind before standing. He waved the wand at the flame and watched it snuff out as though a candle stick. Making certain the last traces of fire were gone, the green eyed boy thrust his hand into the ornate goblet, covering it with the alcohol.

"What are you-" He didn't answer, instead moving his wand and calling forth the flame.

"Incendio..." He heard the twins gasp and smirked in triumph. Ignoring the pain from the heat, Harry lifted the fire upwards, watching it dance just above his hand. He kept it there with some difficulty, breathing heavily after only a few seconds when it dropped. Harry gasped in pain at the burn, his eyes watering as he scowled, quickly banishing it away.

"Oh my! Very well done," replied a voice, neither Elladan or Elrohir. Turning, he looked up to see Bilbo clapping from the doorway. "I hadn't thought you'd manage it." Harry grinned in achievement. He had succeeded just as he had said he would! He wasn't weak or stupid! He wouldn't be left behind again!

"So you'll give me the maps?" Harry asked before he realized the company he was in.

"What maps?" Elrohir asked suddenly, voice suspicious. Harry could have cursed his folly. The twins would hardly let him follow after the fellowship, they'd been shadowing him already since the group left.

"Maps of Rivendell!" Harry invented instantly, only to realize exactly how lame that sounded. All three stared at him, and Harry ducked his head to hide a blush. "Er... Kind of..."

"Indeed, kind of," mocked Elladan with annoyance. "What do you take us for, trolls? You're planning on following the fellowship!"

"Quiet!" Harry hissed, glaring at the twins before looking quickly about himself. "Someone will hear!"

"Then let them hear," glared Elladan, his black hair swinging as he raised his voice. "Aragorn told you specifically to stay!"

"Aragorn is not my father! He doesn't command me." Elrohir opened his mouth to reply when his brother beat him to it.

"And what would your own father say?" asked the elf. He heard Bilbo gasp lightly and felt his own stomach twist in a painful knot.

"I wouldn't know," Harry replied coldly, ignoring the painful lump in his throat and the tears stinging his eyes. "My parents were both murdered."

He turned away, clutching his wand tightly and heard Bilbo in the background saying something he couldn't quite make out. He felt angry, furious even! He needed to get out, needed to get away. Picking up his speed, he ran from the hall, ignoring the people around him as he tried to get away.


	6. Chapter 6

Delusional

Raven'd Fleet

Chapter Six

"Harry Potter?"

He didn't turn around, but instead continued to practice the levitation charm, dragging boulders off the side of the mountain to place them in a large pile before himself. Far more exhausting than levitating simple feathers into the sky.

A hand pressed against his head, and Harry pulled away, surprised to see Elrond's daughter before him. She still looked beautiful, her face one of eternal youth, and her black hair, untouched by the frost of age, falling about her eyes. She looked troubled, and Harry could hardly bare to see it upon one normally so serene.

"Yes, lady Arwen?" he asked, bowing his head slightly. He felt empty now, his anger having been long spent.

"Come inside before you catch chill, child." She grabbed at his hand and pulled him with her as they walked towards the huge city. Or rather, the overly large prison.

"I'd rather not," he whispered, lowering his eyes and coming to an abrupt halt. She stopped at this and stared, as though looking through him and into his soul. It unnerved him, reminding him strongly of Dumbledore with his twinkling eyes.

"My brother did not mean to upset you, _Aistari_." Harry didn't know what she had called him, and didn't care. He closed his eyes and leaned forward. He knew Elladan hadn't meant it, but it had hurt all the same. "Estel has asked them both to look after you in his absence. They both agreed to protect you, and when you lit your hand with fire, they were scared."

"Elves don't get scared," Harry disagreed. He had listened to Bilbo's stories and Aragorn's as well, of elves riding off to battle and performing heroic deeds, brave and awe-inspiring.

Arwen laughed, the sound like a tinkling of many bells. "Alas, but if only! To think such things... We have hearts and flesh to feel, just as you mortals, even now I fear for Aragorn and Frodo, should the fellowship fail..." She trailed off before beginning again, eyes misty. "You scared Elladan and Elrohir very much today."

"I'm sorry..." he whispered, feeling foolish for thinking such things and for letting the elf's words get to him. The fellowship was in danger and here he was thinking only of himself—since when had he become so self-centered?

"There is nothing to forgive, _Aistari_. Now come, let us return for it is most cold here and Bilbo the hobbit has something to give you, so he says."

Harry nodded and let Lady Arwen lead him back into the city and to Bilbo's quarters. The hobbit as well as twin elves were waiting for him there. He bid the lady farewell with a clumsy bow and watched her smile and leave, patting his head lightly. When she'd left ear-shot, he found himself with an earful of apologies.

"Forgive me, Harry Potter-"

He cut them off with a short laugh. Watching the two bow over and over in a gawky and ungainly way that, despite their elegance, somehow destroyed his own sour mood.

"I understand," Harry replied evenly, making certain to keep his voice neutral. "You didn't know."

"It should not matter," replied Elrohir, black eyes dark. "However, we have spoken with Bilbo and decided that if you must be willful and leave the safety of Rivendell, then we shall not stop you."

Harry felt his heart leap. He could still go! He'd almost thought the elves would try and stop him, not that it would help. Harry was determined to help the fellowship either way, he would prove himself!

"However," his joy faded instantly, replaced by suspicion. A catch, as usual. "In return for keeping our silence, we shall join you." He felt the shock immediately, like a punch to the belly and found himself speechless. Seeing this, the elf plunged onwards. "We shall follow you until we are sure you are close enough to join them, and at that time, shall return to the wilds."

"But-"

"It is the only way," interrupted Elladan sternly. "We promised Estel to protect you. We will not stop you, but we will not break our promise with Estel either."

Harry nodded, albeit reluctantly.

"Very good," broke in Bilbo making Harry jump. He had forgotten the old hobbit was there. "I have prepared your maps and bags." He winked at Harry with a grin. "Three shall ride at dawn!"

The elves each smirked to themselves and Harry had to hide a goofy grin of his own. He was getting to go! He would be able to help! He would prove he wasn't childish or stupid. He would! That night, Harry could hardly contain his excitement as he went to bed.

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Harry rose at dawn, relentless.

Hooded by the swiftly fading night, they left Rivendell with only a whispered goodbye to Lady Arwen as she kissed each farewell, slipping Harry a scroll before striding away. It was then, Harry realized their were only two horses.

"To prevent trouble," explained Elrohir as he tightened the saddle on his horse a good ways away from Rivendell's gates. "And so Ada doesn't think we're involved."

"Ada?" Harry asked, climbing on the large beast behind Elladan.

"Father," Elrohir explained patiently as they begun to ride out.

"He won't be mad at you, will he?" inquired Harry, uncertain. He didn't want to get the twins in trouble. They both laughed quietly at his concern.

"How thoughtful of you, little one," replied Elrohir with a grin. "But he will be no more angry than Estel." Elladan then too grinned, watching Harry wince. "Worry not for us though, Estel shall likely be more angry with you. Are you sure you do not wish to turn back, it is not to late?"

Harry shook his head, determined. No, he would prove his worth, he wouldn't be just left behind! He wasn't some pathetic child or useless wimp!

"Very well. Let us make haste, brother! We have twelve days to make up and more distance than I should like. Hold tightly, _Aistari_, let us run!"

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The group rode for several hours, sometimes at a fast gallop and sometimes a rapid canter. They filled the days with lessons in Elvish, where Elladan and Elrohir both refused to speak in English, pointing to things and naming them before suddenly quizzing him on their names: _orn _(tree)_, ondo _(stone)_, anar _(sun)... The nights, however, were filled far more pain.

While the horses rested, Harry faced each brother with his heavy sword, ignoring his sore and chapped legs so he might learn to wield a blade—one of which both elves remarked as dirty beyond belief. The first night they made him scrub it clean while beginning the lessons, agonizing over how to respect a blade and it's proper care.

The nights afterwards, Elladan attacked ruthlessly, which usually ended with Harry on his arse, completely sore all over.

"Move your feet!" shouted Elladan, coming forward and swinging low. Harry only barely managed to block the blow before it was coming for his head. He shifted sideways, breathing heavy as he pulled the blade, Gryffindor's sword, up to block.

"Surely your not tired already?" asked Elrohir, taking a swig of water and munching on who-knows-what (some stupid leaf, most likely). "How will you ever defeat the orcs if you can't carry your blade for a small ten minutes?"

The green eyed wizard glared in the elf's direction but said nothing.

A knife pressed against his throat and he knew he'd lost again, letting his focus wander.

"Dead."

"So I see..." Harry acknowledged, the pressure of the steel close to cutting the skin.

"You will not see if your attention wanders in battle! Your enemy shall cut you down, and rightly so. Pay attention and move your feet!"

"Alright," Harry grumbled, pulling away from the metal and towards the other side. Muscles aching, he dragged the sword upwards in the correct defensive position before driving onward. They did not stop practicing until Elrohir made supper, where Elladan attacked him once more while he ate.

He fell asleep listening to the elf's lectures on etiquette, to tired to finish chewing or swallowing.

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Harry woke with a start, feeling someone shaking him awake. Blurs of brown and black obscured his vision, the light of the fire flickering across the unrecognizable face. He grabbed the glasses thrust into his hand, and pushed them against his nose, wiping something wet from beneath his eyes.

"Harry!" He felt his face pressed against Elrohir's chest and heated with embarrassment. He wasn't some baby that needed mollycoddling! He tried to push away, but the arms that wrapped him were to strong and he himself, to sore. "It'll be alright..."

He stifled a groan. What was the elf talking about? Why wouldn't he just let go?

"Don't worry young one, it was just a dream. You needn't fear it anymore. You're fine." Harry glared at the strong leather armor pricking his body and tried to ignore the stirring in his gut. He didn't remember the dream, and so he hardly need consoling. He wasn't some baby, or even worse, a _girl_!

"I think he is well enough now, Brother," snickered Elladan in the shadowy treetops. Harry wondered how long he'd been watching. Twisting his wrist expertly upwards, he pointedly ignored the angry, painful yelp that came after ignition of magic sparks. Waiting for Elrohir to release him, the boy gave a nervous half-smile and attempted to ignore the red in his cheeks.

"Thank you Elrohir," Harry whispered, his stomach still flopping about at the contact. As he returned to sleep, he couldn't help but smile at the foreign feeling of fingers weaving through his hair.

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"We are drawing close," stated Elladan, bent over the hidden remains of a campfire. "They can not be but more than two days ride ahead."

Elrohir nodded silently, his grip on the reins tightening. He looked to be battling over something, but Harry could hardly distinguish what.

"Then we had best make haste," replied Elrohir from atop his steed. Harry frowned but said nothing. six days on the road with the two of them had taught him better. Instead he leaned forward, resting his body against Elrohir's back.

The nightly practices had become far more intense, with each passing session, sometimes both elves would begin attacking while Harry could only try with futility to block them all.

"Rest," he thought he heard Elladan whisper, dragging his own fingers through Harry's unmanageable black locks. However, when he managed to look over, the aloof elf was already far ahead, scouting the area once more.

Harry shut his eyes and let sleep grasp him.

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The horses suddenly halted, and Harry looked up in surprise and confusion. Why were they stopping? Surely it wasn't time for lunch yet, the sun had yet to make it even half-way across the sky!

Elrohir swung easily off the horse in front and Harry blinked silently, utterly bewildered.

"Come young one," smiled Elrohir, the more openly kind of the brothers.

"What's happening?" He asked, still in a daze.

"This is where we depart," answered Elladan simply, his voice neutral and his lips set into a frown as he sat still, obviously waiting for Harry to get off.

"Already?" he asked with something akin to reluctance. "But we only just began! Surely it is a little further?"

"No, young one," smiled Elrohir as he pulled Harry nimbly down from the horse. "Your path is forward and ours is behind. Surely you do not wish to return to Rivendell already?"

He was tempted to say yes, just to stay with the annoying elves a little longer, but he somehow managed to shake his head. The twins shared identical smirks before leaning down and kissing his head.

Elladan grabbed Harry's sword and the make-shift leather sheath they had created for him and helped to put it across his back. Hardly easy access, but better than carrying it in his arms with the risk of destroying some unsuspecting limb. Elrohir then helped Harry with his pack, shifting it slightly and patting his head with a cheerful smile and a fancy bow.

"Farewell and safe journey, Harry of England." Murmured the two each in turn.

"The fellowship is still a good walk ahead. If you eat while you walk, and rest little, you should make it by nightfall to their encampment. Or, perhaps even beat them to it," explained Elladan, pointing out the way while Elrohir handed him some food.

And with that, they threw themselves upon their horses and rode back the way they came. Never looking back.

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Harry sat in a small patch of frozen dirt next to a warm fire, the December air biting. Completely alone.

Lonely and cold and completely lost; he had yet to see a single sign of the fellowship despite Elladan's words. Surely the elf couldn't have been wrong? Elves were never wrong! Bilbo talked about them being righteous and wise all the time.

But then again, hadn't he thought elves fearless as well?

He closed his eyes and leaned against the base of the tree, eating a piece of stale bread and drinking the sweet water in his pouch. He was just about to fall asleep when he heard voices in the distance, echoes of some wanted conversation.

He doused the fire quickly with his wand, a feat he'd learned as he tried to master his control over fire, and moved promptly, unsheathing Gryffindor's sword as he pulled himself behind a tree. He stood their stiffly for what seemed forever before he remembered his bag. However, the voices moved nearer and more clear.

"What did you find," asked a voice, it's gruff nature familiar. "Or have you come back empty-handed?"

"I saw movement," spoke another, elegant and smooth. "There is something in these woods, though I know not what or who. The smoke we saw is still fresh, as though the fire were quickly doused."

"Could it be another of Sauroman's spies?" inquired a more innocent and scared voice. It sounded familiar and he struggled to remember it.

"There is a bag here!" shouted someone, and Harry froze, for surely he was caught. Listening to the sounds of movement and whispers of curiosity, he gripped the sword tightly. "It is a bag beyond any I have ever seen. Far too small for any man to wear."

He could feel his breath speeding, his heart thundering. Surely they could hear him by it! Surely they would find him and kill him, these strangers.

A twig snapped nearby, and Harry swung from behind the tree, dragging his sword out and pushing it forward with enough force he hoped to break armor. However, he missed, hearing a shout of exclamation just as the weight of his sword's force spun him around. He had but a moment to glimpse gold and blurs of green in the dark before his wand came up in defense.

"Wingardium Leviosa!"

He could hear the people running, coming towards him and looked up in time to see the outline of a shocked elf floating above him, starlit hair spilling down and ethereal eyes wide. An elf, in the woods? So happy, was Harry at that moment, he forgot to continue the spell to keep the elf up, and the graceful figure fell to the ground with a loud thump. Groaning with a glare.

"Legolas!" came a shout, and Harry saw four figures shrouded in shadows rush forth; one, short and thick moved forward wielding his axe threateningly, when the elf, Legolas, cried out.

"Stop! Gimli, it is but a child!"

The ax fell short by a few inches and one of the tall figures thrust out a long cane, making the end grow bright. Gandalf, Harry discovered suddenly, when the blinding light had diminished some, and beside him Aragorn, Boromir and Gimli, the dwarf. The fellowship! But where were the hobbits?

As if called by his thought, four small figures rushed in as well, one holding a bundle of maps and the other shouting wildly. Each stopped and stared, obviously confused.

"Harry?" he turned towards Frodo, who looked to be frowning in thought, his face clearly weary and joyful. "Is that you? But why are you here and not in Rivendell with the elves?"

"A thought we'd all like to know," muttered Gandalf with a cantankerous face. He turned to the elf then, who was still on the ground. "Are you wounded Legolas?"

"Only in pride," replied the sullen elf as he stood. "He managed to surprise me, I had not realized him hidden in the dark." Harry beamed, realizing Elrohir's lessons in stealth had worked, but stopped at Aragorn's stern glare. The tall man moved forward quickly and grabbed him by the ear, twisting it without compassion.

The ranger easily dragged Harry back to where his things were, guided by Gandalf's light as the fellowship set up camp. While making a large fire, Harry would have been glad to help with, except for the painful grip on his ear. When all were settled, the elderly wizard pressed Harry with a hard stare.

"Now, Harry Potter, that we are all settled in, perhaps you will tell us your tale? I, myself, am especially curious to know how a boy, who last I knew in Rivendell still wounded and abed, could somehow beat us to a place even we had not expected to go."

The entire group was staring at him, and he felt his face blush red. Somehow, he hadn't quite expected having to tell them why he came. In fact, he wasn't sure what he had though, beyond the point of getting their.

The first step had seemed impossible enough.

"I... Er- I needed some fresh air!" he lied, trying to think of some reason, any reason besides the real one. A moment later, he heard the dwarf snort and and saw the elf raise an elegant brow. Strong fingers pinched his already delicate ear.

"We are hardly so stupid as all that," stated Gandalf with a frown. "Now the _real_ reason, if you would?"

Harry blushed and then glared. He didn't have to put up with this! He'd come to help, and if they didn't want it, well... Well... Well fine! He tried to pull himself upwards, tried to rise to his feet and storm away, but a hand shoved him firmly to the ground; rooted.

He glared at Aragorn who simply glared back.

"Because I felt like it," he replied angrily, daring Aragorn to refute him. The man said nothing, but the look on his face said he highly disapproved. "What are you going to do, send me back? Elladan and Elrohir are leagues away by now!"

He froze and could have smacked himself.

Stupid. Stupid!

"Elladan and Elrohir!" cried Aragorn stunned, Gandalf and Legolas looked just as shocked. The hobbits, Boromir, and dwarf seemed clueless and worried. "What have they to do with this?"

Harry bit his lip, ready to refuse all questions when Aragorn pinched his ear, demanding once more what the twin sons of Elrond had to do with him being about in the woods. In the end, Harry was forced to tell about how the two had taken Harry from the safety of Rivendell and left him in the wilderness that morning to walk on.

Aragorn looked absolutely livid.

"I don't see the problem with his coming," suddenly spoke Boromir, the son of the steward of Gondor, a distant land in the East. "He is a wizard, is he not? And he has already spooked the elf. As it is, we can hardly send him back, not alone amongst the wargs."

Pippin nodded earnestly, and Harry noticed then that the hobbits were all quite pale.

"Well, as it seems we have no choice-"

"But he is but a boy!" shouted Aragorn, his hand falling against Harry's shoulder and a tightening painfully. "Surely you can not expect him to come-"

"And surely you can not expect us to turn back such a weapon?" asked Boromir, standing. "It is fate! It must be for him, not only to find us in the wilderness such as this, but also to remain in this land-"

"It is not fate but folly!" argued Aragorn, obviously devoted to sending Harry back. "He is twelve of age. Twelve, Boromir!"

"And there are children younger that must join our armies back home," replied the man stiffly. The words made Harry sick. Children younger than... But they'd have to be, like Ginny's age. And then if they die... at Ginny's age. And...

And the image of Ginny was before him again, her red hair spread about her as she laid limp, brown eyes shut, as though in sleep. Riddle was standing over her, his face a look of power, his eyes flashing red as the pale girl faded from life. But the red hair was turning brown and frizzy, utterly bushy with a pallid countenance etched in horror; frozen in time, wide eyed. The note in her fist. The mirror in hand.

And he could feel the bile rise in his throat.

Opening the eyes he didn't realized he had shut, he looked at Boromir in pain.

"Younger than..." He needn't have finished, the man simply turned his head, obviously shamed.

No one talked after that, except in soft whispers. Aragorn and Legolas sat together, arguing heatedly and so quickly in elvish Harry couldn't keep up, except the occasional word. Merry and Pippin both huddled together next to Sam. Frodo looked just as frightened, though he tried to show none. The dwarf, Gimli sat next to him, talking about the wonders of a place called Moria and Gandalf smoked his pipe, staring into space.

Slowly, that night Harry fell asleep, memories and dreams weaving themselves together in a frightening array that left him restless and tired in the morning.

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"Well, we're here at last!" said Gandalf. He had lead them early in the morning a little less than a mile to a small strip of land bordered on either side by large, sharp outcroppings and shallow water lined with drowned bushes and dead stumps. The walk was slippery and often times treacherous, but the fellowship kept close, and Harry was kept closer for Strider's anger had yet to diminish. "Here the elven way from Hollin ended. Holly was the token of friendship from those people and a marking of borders, for the West gate was made chiefly for their use in trafficking with the Lords of Moria. Those were happier days, when there was still close friendship at times between folk of different races, even between Dwarves and Elves."

"It is not the fault of the dwarves if the friendship waned," said Gimli.

"I have not heard it was the fault of the elves," said Legolas in reply. Harry had to hide a laugh at their argument, upon Aragorn's disapproving glance, it reminded him fondly of Hermione and Ron of whom he had left at home. His smile faltered when he thought of his best friends.

Both most probably dead.

"I have heard both," said Gandalf; "and I will not give judgment now. But I beg you two, Legolas and Gimli, at least to be friends, and to help me. I need you both. The doors are shut and hidden. The sooner we find them the better."

He then turned to the rest of them and had them unload the pony, Bill, who could not journey through the mines. Sam was all but consolable, having grown fond of him during their journey. Anything that could be left behind was left in a pile. Pippin made a short joke of Harry guarding the pile, but said no more when he found his furry feet slightly smoking.

"Well, here we are and all are ready," said Merry; "but where are the Doors? I can't see any sign of them."

"Dwarf doors are not made to be seen when shut," replied Gimli in turn. "They are invisible, and their own masters can not find them or open them, if their secret is forgotten."

Gandalf muttered something before moving forward, his hand tracing over the smoothest section of the wall. And slowly, as though tiny threads of silver were working their way forward from the stone, lines began to appear. When the elderly wizard stepped back, Harry could feel his breath hitch.

"What does the writing say?" asked Frodo as he tried to decipher the inscription on the arch of strange letters.

"They do not say anything of importance to us. They say only: _The doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, friend, and enter. _And underneath small and faint is written: _I Narvi, made them. Celebrimbor of Hollin drew these signs_."

"What does it mean, _Speak, friend, and enter_?" asked Merry.

"That is plain enough," answered Gimli. "If you are a friend, speak the password, and the doors will open, and you can enter."

Harry stopped listening to them squabble, drawn to the black water of the lake. Gandalf was saying something about not knowing the password and Boromir was fretting over the turn of events. He sat near the ledge, his legs hanging over to dangle a few feet above the putrid liquid and the dead bushes beneath.

He wondered, if only to pass the time, what old Butterbur was doing. Probably pouring some old drunk a drink of ale and causing a cheer with his bustling smile. Harry grinned as well, when he heard the sound of a loud howl.

He looked towards the frightened pony and fearful Sam.

"Do not let him run away!" said Boromir. "It seems that we shall need him still, if the wolves do not find us. How I hate this foul pool!" He stooped and picking up a large rock, threw it far into the middle of the black water. The water rippled and bubble where the rock landed, before slowly drawing nearer.

Harry stood quickly, a feeling of sudden fear taking him over. Something wasn't right here. He grabbed his wand and held it tight, backing away from the edge.

"Why did you do that Boromir?" asked Frodo. "I hate this place, too, and I am afraid. I don't know of what: not of wolves, or the darkness beyond the door, but of something else. I am afraid of the pool. Don't disturb it!"

"I wish we could get away!" said Merry.

"Why doesn't Gandalf do something quick?" said Pippin. Then, as though thinking of something, turned to Harry. "Harry, your a wizard, can't you open the door?"

The fellowship stopped talking and turned towards him. The hobbits looked eager, Gandalf seemed to be ignoring them as he riddled through endless thoughts, and the dwarf seemed to huff in annoyance—as though some boy could break into Moria! Legolas and Aragorn both eyed him neutrally while Boromir's spirits seemed to rise considerably.

"Yes, come boy, show us your powers! Open the door!" said the man.

"The dwarves magic is strong," replied Aragorn as though it were most obvious. "It is doubtful it will open to him, who does not know the password. Gandalf will remember, we must simply have faith and give him time."

"I would rather we try and know now," said Boromir. He nodded towards Harry and the younger wizard felt torn. Should he? Gandalf didn't appear to be making any progress, what if he could? What if he managed to get them into Moria? Then he'd prove his worth, and Aragorn wouldn't be angry anymore, and they'd let him help, and... and...

He looked at the door and nodded his head. Maybe if he put a lot of power into the unlocking charm, would it open?

Focusing intently, he pulled at his fear, dragging it from his gut and heart. He thought of his fear for Ginny and Hermione, the terror of the black water and whatever laid beneath. He approached it, about to ready his wand, when a laugh broke his concentration.

"I have it!" cried Gandalf. "Of course, of course! Absurdly simple, like most riddles when you see the answer." Picking up his staff, he stood before the rock and said in a clear voice: _mellon_!

The light of the star in the middle of the picture faded out and the outline of a doorway appeared in the stone that, moments before had had signs of none. Slowly and noiselessly, the door swung open, revealing a great darkness beyond, blacker than night.

"I was wrong after all," said Gandalf, "and Gimli too. Merry, of all people, was on the right track. The opening word was inscribed on the archway the entire time! The translation should have been: _Say 'friend' and enter. _I had only to speak the elvish word for _friend_ and the doors opened. Quite simple. Too simple for a learned lore-master in these suspicious days. Those were happier times. Now let us go!"

Just as Gandalf stepped foot on the doorstep to enter Moria, a shout could be heard. Turning at once, Harry saw a great tentacle lifting Frodo into the air. But why would the giant squid... He felt a hand push him backwards and Strider was racing into the water.

"Expelliarmus!" He shouted, raising the wand towards the tentacle holding Frodo. It twitched but didn't let go. He cursed and moved his wand towards the creature's large eye, which by now was peaking from the lake. "Diffindo!"

An arrow from Legolas's bow struck at the same time as Harry's spell. The large beast reared in the water, it's tentacles flying about and Frodo falling into Aragorn's outstretched arms. A feeling stirred his stomach but he didn't have time to think. He was being pulled past the West Gates as it was, Legolas had taken his arm and the monster was sweeping its tentacles blindly.

He heard a shout and the thunder of falling rocks.

A pain split through his head and the world went dark.


	7. Chapter 7

Delusional

Raven'd Fleet

Chapter Seven

_Hermione stood before him, her finger outstretched as she scolded. "Won't you hurry Harry? We can't wait forever!"_

_He tried to reply, but she was falling forward from a suddenly great height. Her body shifting and Hedwig was above him, hooting eagerly. She wanted a treat, but he didn't have any. Maybe Butterbur did, though._

"_A moment Hedwig," he tried to say, "just a moment!"_

_But she wouldn't stay. She was flying away, into the woods. He followed after her and an arrow struck his arm. Legolas glared before releasing another._

"_But wait-" the shaft thudded into his arm without pain._

"_You failed, Harry Potter," said a voice. Frodo shifted from the shadows, his arms weighed down by chains. "Why didn't you save me Harry? I thought you cared-"_

"_But I do!"_

"_ENOUGH!" screamed Legolas, only it wasn't Legolas, but Aragorn instead. He looked enraged, his black hair thrown about. "You're nothing but a pitiful orphan. Who could ever love you? How could you think I'd care?"_

_He whimpered and nine shadows crept around him, each sneering and jeering at him-_

"Harry!" He awoke suddenly, gasping as he sat up. His body felt cold and hot, and his head thundering and ears ringing loudly.

"What-" He looked around at a few worried faces, and some quite relieved. He recalled the events from earlier and couldn't contain his fears. "Is Frodo alright?"

He watched Aragorn scowl and bit his lip in worry. Had something happened? Was his friend okay? Did the hobbit-

"I am well enough," replied a voice, and Harry knew it at once as the ring-bearing hobbit. He grinned, feeling a weight drop from his shoulders. "Thanks in part to you and Legolas, as well as Aragorn and Boromir. It was you we worried for, a rock hit your head."

"Indeed," replied Gandalf, "and the rocks have locked us in without kindling and with very little water. Now that you are awake, we should begin again our journey." The fellowship nodded and did so, all the while Harry pondered on his dream, walking near the back and towards the darkness. They walked a long while, stopping to rest at times when they grew weary. With the eternal darkness, Harry's internal clock seemed to dissolve, he had no idea how long they wandered beneath the high, though sometimes low, wrought ceilings.

"What troubles you, young wizard?" He looked up at the voice, to find Legolas beside him, the elf's keen eyes masked in darkness. "You've wandered since we entered like that of the dead, or rather a walking sleep."

Harry frowned and did not reply at once.

"I was thinking of my home," he finally said, his voice a low whisper. "But it hardly matters now. My home is gone." The elf looked at him curiously, as though he didn't understand, but nodded all the same. Harry ignored it and continued to walk, listening to the low moaning echoes as he moved through the darkness.

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"I have no memory of this place at all!" stated Gandalf in frustration as he stood beneath a large stone archway. Harry sighed and sat down, listening to them all talk and argue, to weary to care. They had walked for what seemed forever guided only by a distant light on Gandalf's staff.

A door at the side of the arch opened to a wide circular chamber where they all entered easily. Merry and Pippin both tried to rush and enter, eager to rest, but Harry waited patiently on the narrow floor outside hardly bothered by the height. After Gandalf, he followed behind Legolas and before Boromir. The tall man seemed quite disheartened by the mine's blackness.

"One of you might have fallen in and still be wondering when you were going to strike the bottom," chastened Aragorn to Merry. "Let the guide go first while you have one."

"This seems to be a guardroom made for the watching of the three tunnels," said Gimli, and Harry noticed then the open well in the center. "That well was plainly a well for the guards' use, covered with a stone lid. But the lid is broken and we must all take care in the dark."

Harry agreed and stayed far away, fearful and at the same time curious. He watched with half an eye as Pippin approached the opening, obviously just as inquisitive. Harry had only just laid one of his elven blankets on the floor when he heard a sound echo about, like a _kerplunk_ of something hitting water, but seemed to magnify in the cavernous area.

Harry pulled out his wand immediately and pushed himself against the wall on instinct. A flame danced brightly in his mind's eye as he waited for the enemy to appear. He mightn't have bothered though, for it turned out Pippin had dropped a rock into the well to measure it's depth.

"Fool of a Took!" growled the wizard. "This is a serious journey, not a hobbit walking-party. Throw yourself in next time and then you will no longer be so much of a nuisance. Now be quiet!"

They were all silent for a few minutes when a sound from out of the deep moved through the air. A soft tapping, like that of faint knocks: _tom-tap, tap-tom_. They stopped, and when the echoes died away, they repeated again: _tap-tom,_ _tom-tap, tap-tap, tom_. They sounded disquietingly like signals, almost. But after a moment, the sounds died away and did not begin again.

"That was the sound of a hammer or I have never heard one," said Gimli.

"Yes, and I do not like it," said Gandalf. He went on to talk more, about monsters of the deep and creature's he would prefer kept in sleep. Harry didn't listen to hard, his mind far more preoccupied with the fearful drumming he had heard. It burned a whisper in his soul that refused to quiet. Eventually, he fell in a restless sleep and dreamed of great drums and a monster in the shadows.

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Harry froze in the darkness, a feeling of unease washing over him. Something was watching them. He made to sit up, but a hand kept him firmly rooted on the stony, cold ground. His heart sped and his mind whirled with possibilities.

"Do not move," hissed Aragorn. Harry stiffened but made no other movement, holding his breath as he waited. After a moment, the hand on his shoulder removed itself and Harry figured it safe to sit up. He looked around the darkness before turning towards the ranger.

"What was it?" he asked, his stomach tight and uneasy.

"Gollum," said the man in a low voice. "Gandalf believes he has been following us for some time. He wants the ring. Best to not lower your guard." Harry nodded and held tightly to the wand he had made. Not nearly as powerful as his old one, but a wand all the same.

"Are you afraid, Aragorn?" He knew it was probably a stupid question, everyone was afraid sometimes, hadn't Arwen tried to tell him? But he wanted to know all the same. Aragorn was greater than any man or elf or dwarf or hobbit that Harry new, he could fight the Nazgul without even a tremble. He dove forward after the giant squid when it picked up Frodo without even a pause. He was strong and great. Greater than the hope everyone put in Harry back at home.

"Yes," said Aragorn, "are not we all? But sleep now Harry, we have a long walk and many more dangers than the creeping Gollum." But Harry had one last question he refused to let go unanswered. One that had silently haunted him since he'd almost heard him utter it.

"Aragorn," Harry asked very quietly. The man turned towards him, eyes shadowed by the almost withered fire. "Back in Rivendell, you had almost said something. Will you tell me now, what you meant?"

The reaction was immediate as the Ranger blushed crimson and turned away slightly. Harry did not remove his tired gaze.

"I... I had wondered... Well, rather, when this ordeal is over, and should I have survived I will wed lady Arwen." Harry nodded stunned, not surprised by the words, but the forwardness of the man. When had he become so open? And what had this to do with Harry? "I have spoken with Arwen, of course, and we have come to an accord. Should we both survive, I would like for you to become our son."

Stunned, Harry could only stare.

"I need not you answer now," cut in the man, obviously think Harry's silence and shock a decline. "In fact, I would much rather you wait and think on it. Sleep now Harry, you have a long while to answer. Sleep now, Gandalf shall keep us safe."

And Harry did, falling asleep numbly against the cold ground once more with only his soft elven blanket to keep him warm and the slow realization of Aragorn's words.

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Harry awoke once more, though this time to the sound of a soft voice hissing near him. Turning slightly, he could hear the slight rasping voice of a stranger. Turning carefully, so as to not venture too near the hole in the middle, Harry managed to make out the one-sided conversation of the person that did not rouse the others.

"Hungssy... Uselesssss sssof-ssins. They ssssellllsss of ravelsss and sssweass... Hungsssy so hungssy..." Leaning forward, Harry moved his hand as silently as possible against the floor. The voice hissed immediately, warningly.

"Who are you?" asked Harry, his voice as low as he dared, so low, in fact, he could not hear it except the echo of words he knew he'd spoken.

"Youusss ssspppeasss?" cried the voice unnaturally loud. Harry tried not to wince at the sound. Why had the others yet to waken, or Gandalf to turn? Surely he'd noticed this intruder already? "I issss Sssseeeisssssooo..."

"Sayso?" Harry asked, the "s" sound a bit longer than normal. "I'm Harry. Why are you here?"

"I lisss heerrreee..." trailed Sayso. "I isss hungry, doo youss hasss a rat?"

Harry felt sick, why would he have a rat? Surely the stranger didn't intend to eat it? But if not why would she, for Harry was sure it was a she, ask? And why could he not yet see her through the light of the fire? Why had Gandalf not joined him?

"No."

"Ah, then I mussss gossss, I amm hungsssyyy. Goodbye Hasssy"

"Goodbye Sayso," Harry whispered, listening to the voice go and yet still unable to see the body, except the light sliver of dark green. Once more Harry tried for sleep.

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It was Gandalf who roused them from sleep. He had sat and watched through the night, though Harry could hardly tell the difference with only night about him, and had found the way. Harry chuckled at his reasoning, despite the strange looks he received from the fellowship; the middle did not feel well, the left smelled rank, and so they took the right, the only other option.

The passage they chose went upwards in great spiraling curves, much like the way to Dumbledore's office. And as it grew higher, it became wider and more lofty. There were no cracks when the road straightened, and no side doors or openings to other galleries. Gandalf lead them faster than before and Harry had to half-run to keep up.

When he felt on the edge of exhaustion, they stopped. Harry would have happily fallen asleep right their if not for the frigid breeze that made his arms and legs burn with chill. They all huddled in a corner of the cavernous cave then, Harry crushed between Sam and Legolas and Gimli.

It was hardly comfortable, what with the dwarf metal pressing into his thigh and the elf hair in his eyes. Sam also had a tendency to roll in his sleep, grabbing Harry's arm to cuddle with it. However, it was warm and sometimes cause for merriment, as when Gimli broke out in song, singing of Durin who walked alone and some other nonsense.

It gave Harry reason to laugh, and he smiled slightly as he fell asleep, listening to talk of some substance called Mithril and it's beauty.

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They awoke for breakfast and make quick haste to begin again as they finished eating. No one wished to spend another night in the darkness of Moria, Harry especially. The place gave him chills, reminding him of the Chamber of secrets.

"Harry," asked Merry then, while they were packing. "What did you finally decide to make your wand with? You still hadn't found a substance when we'd left, if I recall correctly."

Harry blushed brightly as attention fell on him once more. Gandalf, it seemed, already knew, for he grinned foolishly before going back to work, putting up pans and other things. Harry wondered once more just how much the man seemed to know and yet did not let on.

"My original wand was Holly with a phoenix feather. I've had the Holly ready for ages, but the hairs just didn't work. And since I don't think there are phoenixes here, I've been using hairs. Only none would work. Finally, when you'd all left, I found three strands on my bedside table." Here the young wizard looked up, and only then, did he notice that Aragorn was slightly red as well. Blinking, he wondered why.

"Ah!" cried Gandalf with obvious relief, "then you found it, eh? I knew the Lady Arwen could be trusted with such a task! Indeed, did I not say she could?"

"Indeed you did," mumbled Aragorn. And only then, did Harry notice that he was missing a good section of hair. Far more than three pieces. "Let us go though, before our hunger assails us once more!"

They followed Gandalf, then, deeper into the mines until they came unto a chamber to the side, where a bright light flooded the area, as though raining from the ceiling. In the middle of a dusty floor, a large box of stone stood, the bones of the dead surrounding it's empty confines.

"It looks like a tomb," muttered Frodo who bent forward to examine with a morbid curiosity. Harry managed to glimpse what looked like runes etched into the stone. They were crude and very linear, but beautiful all the same.

"These are Daeron's Runes, such as were used of old in Moria," said Gandalf. "Here is written in the tongues of Men and dwarves:

_BALIN SON OF FUNDIN_

_LORD OF MORIA_

"He is dead then," said Frodo. "I feared it was so." Gimli cast his hood over his face.

The company of the ring stood silently beside the tomb of Balin. Harry did not know the man, or rather the dwarf, but he felt his heart clench for him all the same. He understood the pain of loss, he had lost his family when he was little, less than a year old, murdered at the hand of the Dark Lord Voldemort. He wanted to comfort Gimli, but knew the dwarf would hardly appreciate the effort.

Gandalf lifted a leather bound book covered with dust from a corner of the room. He read it carefully, Frodo and Gimli on either side. When an eternity seemed to end, he looked up at last.

"It seems to be a record of the fortunes of Balin's folk," he said. "I guess that it began with their coming to Dimrill Dale nigh on thirty years ago: the pages seem to have numbers referring to the years after their arrival. The top page is marked _one_—_three_, so at least two are missing from the beginning. Listen to this!"

Gandalf read aloud the words of the records, or diary. Harry listened to the death of the Lord of Moria and the coming of orcs. He had just heard the words of being trapped when his scar began to prickle. Something was wrong. He tried to tell Legolas, but the elf seemed to ignore him, in favor of the story. He turned to Aragorn then.

"Aragorn!" he whispered loudly, tugging on the man's sleeve insistently. Something terrible was stirring, he could almost taste it. The blue eyes turned towards him in concern. "Aragorn, shouldn't we be going? Balin is dead, but we will be too if we don't hurry. Aragorn, something _bad_ is coming."

The ranger frowned, and shook his head.

"We will leave in a moment, when the account is read."

"But-"

"In a moment, Harry."

He nodded, albeit reluctantly. He didn't like the feeling in his gut. They needed to hurry!

"...and then, _drums, drums in the deep. _I wonder what that means. The last thing written is in a trailing scrawl of elf letters. _They are coming. _There is nothing more." Gandalf paused and stood in a moment thought. Harry wished he wouldn't.

"_We cannot get out_," muttered Gimli. "It is well for us that the water has sunken a little, and that the watcher was sleeping down at the southern end."

Gandalf spoke a little before he finally decided to leave. Harry breathed a sigh of relief as he did. The quicker he got out of the black mines, the happier he would be. The place was to reminisce of the chamber of secrets, only much less lit.

"Come now, back to the hall!"

He had barely said the words when a loud shout echoed through the depths of Moria, and a deep drum began to beat along with a raging horn. There was the sound of many feet and answering calls further on. Harry felt his gut sink.

"They are coming!" cried Legolas.

"We cannot get out!" shouted Gimli. Harry shrugged off the leather from his back and pulled out the heavy sword. He pulled the sheath back on and slipped the wand into his tunic, wrapping it tightly against his arm.

_Doom, Doom, _came the drum beats that shook the walls.

"Slam the doors and wedge them shut!" shouted Aragorn. "And keep your packs on as long as you can: we may get a chance to cut our way out yet."

"No!" said Gandalf. "We must not get shut in. Keep the East door ajar! We will go that way if we get a chance."

Harry swallowed his fear and moved between the hobbits and the door. He would protect them with his life, as the others of the fellowship had sworn to do. He would prove his worth and show Aragorn he wasn't some pathetic child.

Resting the blade at the stone between his feet, he saw Aragorn pull his own sword, Andúril, from it's sheath.

The door pushed open slightly and an ugly, scaly muscled arm pushed through, the green hand groping while a smooth foot entered as well below. Boromir rushed forward, his sword coming down in an eager arc with much strength. It clang as it met the outstretched limb, glanced off, and fell away from arm chipped. Frodo sprang forward just then.

"The Shire!" he shouted, stabbing his own blue blade into the foot which quickly retreated. Black blood dripped from the blade and smoked on the floor. Boromir pushed against the door and it shut once more.

"One for the Shire!" cried Aragorn. "The hobbit's bite is deep! You have a good sword, Frodo son of Drogo!"

The doors beat again and finally sprang open, releasing many orcs into the room. Harry sprang into action, dodging a blow that would have killed him and hacking the creature with the sword he could barely pick up. When the blade only half killed the creature, Harry released it with a hand and pointed his arm.

"Incendio!" he shouted, the fire jumped through the air and burned into the creature, killing it instantly.

He turned to move to another when a pain shot through his shoulder.

An orc blade had lodged itself in Harry's arm, he lifted his hands to the creature's face and watched with a muted fascination as it burned away and turned to dust. The monster fell to the floor dead as well.

Then, in a dizzying flash and pause, Gandalf was shouting to leave. Sam was bleeding from his head. The orcs were pulling back. The light was painful and bright. The blood was falling fast. An orc chieftain raced through, defying both Boromir and Aragorn.

Harry saw him face Frodo and felt the fire burn again. He pulled at it, dragging it up. He didn't bother to say the words, his mind to groggy. The pain to great. His eyes flashed and the orc split in fire, but not before hammering Frodo with spear in his right side.

He had failed. Frodo fell back and Sam leaped forward with a cry, shattering the spear. Aragorn leaped forward and finished the orc as he dragged Frodo out. Harry pulled himself up.

"Now!" shouted Gandalf. "Now is the last chance! Run for it!"

Merry and Pippin were ushered before the ranger. Legolas had to all but drag Gimli from the room despite the peril, where he wished to continue the fight. Harry pressed against the rear, his sword back in it's sheath, though he was unsure how he managed it.

As they ran down the flights of stairs, Harry bandaged his wound, trying to stop the flow. No one had yet to notice though. They waited at the bottom when Gandalf appeared. Harry hadn't realized they'd left him. Frodo was walking by Aragorn, well alive despite his paleness.

"You will have to do without light-" he heard Gandalf say, and wanted to help, but could not find the strength. He laid against a stone pillar and gasped. A pain in his head was coming again, more agonizing with each beat of the drum.

They stumbled after the wizard then, chasing through the dark. The beating of the drums still came, but it was muffled now, and sounded far away. Finally they rested, and Aragorn looked to Frodo as Gimli looked to Gandalf. Harry looked to his arm, and tore another sleeve to help stop the bleeding. A cold numbness had already taken the arm and his eyes were becoming the slightest bit dizzy.

He didn't bother to listen to their conversations, closing them from his mind.

"Are you hurt?" asked a voice. He looked up to see Legolas staring down at him. He tried to say no, but couldn't find the breath.

"A small wound," he ground out, though he knew it a lie. He couldn't afford to slow them down. He puffed slightly, "I... I think-"

He could say no more, he felt the bile in his throat. The elf was kneeling now, his keen eyes sharp, even in the dark.

" Can... make light... if-" He puffed again, his mouth dry.

"You are hurt then," spoke Legolas, he lifted Harry's sleeve, and Harry heard his breath hitch. "This is hardly small, _aistari_." The elf looked ready to say something but Harry managed to stop him, grabbing his hand.

"No..." he whispered. "Must... hurry..."

The elf looked reluctant but nodded. He gave Harry a sip of water and they began their journey again, this time with Legolas helping him to run as they went. Arrows sped overhead, one bouncing off Frodo, the other piercing Gandalf's hat.

Harry saw Legolas pause, as they crossed the bridge over the huge black chasm, and string an arrow, however it fell from his fingers.

"Ai! Ai!" wailed the elf. "A Balrog! A Balrog is come!"

"Durin's Bane!" cried Gimli, dropping his axe and covering his face.

"A Balrog! Now I understand," said Gandalf as he leaned against his staff wearily. "What misfortune has befallen us! I am already weary."

Harry looked at the fiery demon and felt an unbidden rage build. How dare it use fire to destroy! How dare it stop the company! He heard Gandalf tell everyone to fly, but did not. He stood behind Aragorn and Boromir at the end of the narrow straight. Drawing up his strength to did as he had learned to as he tried to master the fire.

"You can not pass!" shouted Gandalf. "I am a servant of the secret fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. You can not pass! The dark fire will not avail you dark flame of Udun. Go back to the Shadow! You can not pass!"

Harry drew against the fire as well, feeling the phoenix song fill him. It encouraged him, numbing the pain in his shoulder and comforting his soul. It gave him fervor and strengthened the fire that had sparked within him. He didn't understand it, and he did. He stepped past Aragorn and Boromir, ignoring their cries and lifting his hands. His body seemed to move without him, as though he were but a puppet, as though he were but the words of an action.

He stared into the monster beyond Gandalf and began to pull at the fire that surrounded the Balrog. The dark flames burned as they came to him. An icy pain that reeked of evil. Harry ignored it and pulled more, drawing in the nasty fire as he went, and holding it above his head as he had with the flame from Rivendell.

The Balrog seemed to notice this and grew enraged. It charged, and he could hear Aragorn and Boromir behind him, shouting words. Harry ignored it all, dragging in the dark fire was his only purpose. He would succeed. He must.

"You shall not pass!"

The fire was falling away, the Balrog defeated. He gasped for breath and felt his head and eyes spin. A light was filling his mind, the song of the phoenix budding through his soul.

Harry swayed against his feet and fell, sideways along the bridge. A hand grabbed his own, just as he'd almost tumbled into the darkness.

His unfocused eyes saw Aragorn holding tightly, the shaded blue black with fear. He understood then, understood it all. How he had come, why. He had not been called, as others had guessed, but send. The rip caused by opposites. The burn of his own fire played fiercely against the Balrog's dark call; the same way the Basalisk and the phoenix's magic had disturbed each other.

Gandalf was tumbling downwards into the abyss. In a moment, Harry knew he would join them. He smiled at Aragorn, he was saying something. Something far and distant.

"Don't let go..."

But he couldn't. He slipped away, staring at the face etched in fear and horror. He watched it until the world turned black. He watched it as it screamed.

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He awoke slowly.

Pain, unbearable shifting pain stormed through his chest and arms, dancing on the bones and stabbing his head. Harry Potter doubted any part of him that didn't hurt. Flickering the emerald eyes slowly open, he stared at the Blackened ceiling, clear and distinct, though broken and fragmented.

He lifted his head at a cold laugh, feeling the cold sword hilt in his hand and warm blood around it. Looking over, he saw the figure Tom Riddle standing confidentially beside Ginny, his handsome face twisted in shock.

"What! But how? How is it possible you-"

Harry pulled himself upwards, dragging the sword with him as he rose despite the pain.

"Damn you" He whispered in elvish, the words coming to him even as he bore the large sword high above his head. He plunged it down, feeling it vibrate and burn with fire as it ripped through the diary. "Die!"

The memory shrieked in pain, and Harry collapsed beside Ginny, watching as the ink began to leak away, leaving a black trail in it's wake. He was too late.

Ginny was dead.

The numbness that had spread through him over time, broke like glass. He bent of the little girl and screamed. It wasn't fair! It wasn't right! She didn't deserve it, Riddle had used her! Killed her!

But no, whispered another part of his mind. He had killed her.

He was too late.

"Harry?"

He suddenly pulled away, wiping away the mud and tears from his face as he looked on at the still pale Ginny, her red hair falling around to frame his face as brown eyes blinked slowly, in confusion and fear.

"You're okay..." He gushed, feeling foolish and relieved at the same time. He crushed her in a hug of his own. "I thought... I thought you dead..."

She looked even paler when he pulled away but said nothing. Fawkes the Phoenix flew to them and led them away where they met Ron and Professor Lockhart, who had accidentally erased his own memory with Ron's broken wand. All four left the Chamber of secrets, holding onto Fawkes' majestic tale as he pulled them up the long tunnel to safety.

Then, in Professor Dumbledore's office, he met with Mr. And Mrs. Weasley. They all talked so long, Harry could hardly listen, could hardly feel. He remembered the faces, the balrog and the fire; and, as he recited the almost forgotten journey to the chamber, he was faced with an unexpected decision.

"You battled the basilisk and passed out, Harry?" inquired Dumbledore, his twinkling eyes seeming to wither. "What then?"

Should he tell the headmaster about his appearance at Bree? The seeming realistic chase through the wilderness with Strider and the four hobbits? The battle atop Weathertop and the flight for the ford? Should he tell of the elven city, filled with strange immortal creatures and their counsel? The lord of the Rings and the fellowship? His being left behind and his willful chase to help? His ability to wield fire as he helped Gandalf face the monster of the deep?

But none of it had really happened, had it? His arm was not sliced in half, his clothes were not elvish, though they should have been. And he didn't still have the wand he had created. He'd been delusional, obviously.

"I..." He paused, remembering Aragorn's horrified face as Harry descended off the bridge near where Gandalf too had stood—the silent scream as he descended "And then I had a dream." He smiled slightly, remembering Bob and Butterbur, Aragorn and Gandalf, Frodo and Sam, Pippin and Merry, Elladan and Elrohir, and so many others. "It was so very long and quite real... But... just a dream."

With a heavy sigh, Harry told the rest of the story and listened to the headmaster speak. Lucius Malfoy interrupted and Harry managed to free Dobby th house elf. After a long day he finally went to sleep. Even then, he could not escape Aragorn's fearful gaze and that last, distant promise. He doubted he ever would.

**The End**

A/N: Thank you all for reading this. If you would please, be so kind as to leave a review at the end, I should be very much indebted to you indeed! If there is, or is not, a sequel, I shall not know for some time. Thank you all, once more, for reading, and for those of you have complimented the story, I thank as well.

Sincerely,

Raven'd Fleet


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